


Seeking the Light: An FFXIV Anthology

by jaybirddraws (simplestorange)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amaurotine Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst, Awkward Flirting, Blood, Blood and Injury, Celebrations, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, FFxivWrite, FFxivWrite2020, First Kiss, Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Gaslighting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Male-Female Friendship, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Multi, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Therapy, Trauma, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, potentially innacurate depictions of ptsd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 47,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26253448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplestorange/pseuds/jaybirddraws
Summary: A collection of short stories, drabbles, and scenes surrounding A'chago Tia, my WoL.Post FFXIVWrite, I've decided to use this as a catch-all for all the little scenes that don't really fit anywhere else :)
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Hythlodaeus & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Ilberd Feare/Warrior of Light, Lyse Hext & Warrior of Light, Lyse Hext/Hien Rijin, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch & Hythlodaeus & Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light, Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV) & Original Character(s)
Comments: 91
Kudos: 63





	1. Crux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyse has a bit of a wardrobe emergency. Luckily, the Warrior of Light is also the Warrior of _Weaving_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry i did like two seconds of research on japanese celebrations i am just hiding behind fantasy rules and the fact that i'm 99% convinced communal dinners are a staple of most celebrations worldwide (right? pls say right...)

The linkpearl call was frantic. Lyse’s tinny voice squeaked out of the device, a modicum of panic slipping through her professional facade. “I wouldn’t call you if it wasn’t urgent,” she had said, her nervous smile audible through the linkpearl. “But it’s really quite urgent.”

A’chago finishes strapping on his boots and secures his sewing kit at his side. The gist of the matter was simple: the Resistance was formally invited to Doma to celebrate the reconstruction of the Doman Enclave, and Lyse’s folk dress, while meticulously cared for, had seen significant wear and tear by virtue of her never taking the damn thing off. She has no other clothes that are not in worse states. 

Hien could have just asked her on a date instead of this grandiose gesture of political niceties, but, to each his own. A’chago tosses some gil into the air as he starts the teleportation spell. 

The Doman Enclave is covered in decorations when he lands. There are delicate paper lanterns hanging along the arched walls, glowing softly in a rainbow of colors. The smell of chicken and steamed dumplings is carried on the cool breeze. Music plays, both Ala Mhigan and Doman. A’chago makes his way over to the Kienkan. 

Inside is clearly where the main fare is. A low lying table cuts the room in half, flocked by rows of orderly zabutons. A’chago carefully maneuvers around them and into the back where Lyse said she was staying. 

He reaches her door and knocks against the lattice of the shoji. She slides it open immediately, then flings her arms around him and drags him into a hug. 

“Thank you so, _so_ much for coming,” Lyse says, burying her face in his shoulder. “Gods, and to think this is is the first time I’ve seen you since you got back from the First and I’m already asking you for favors! Papalymo would have my head.” 

A’chago laughs and wraps his arms around her. “It’s good to see you, too, Lyse. Now, let’s make you beautiful for your man.”

She squawks indignantly and swats him on the arm. A’chago moves past her easily and steps into the room. 

It’s big, certainly. There’s space for a futon with a thin red blanket, washtub, chest of drawers, and an ensuite kitchen. Hien set her up nicely. A’chago wonders if she noticed or if she just thought he was being nice. 

“Right!” he says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s see the damage.”

Lyse nervously adjusts her linen tank top and shorts. “It’s on the futon.” She points toward the blanket.

A’chago walks over and picks it up. Instead of falling into the pattern he knows and recognizes, it falls into pieces. “Lyse, this isn’t your dress. This is rags.”

“I know!” she wails, burying her face in her hands. “I feel terrible. There was a tiger, the biggest one we’ve ever seen...it got me pretty bad. Can you fix it?”

A’chago takes another look at the dress. There are obvious rips and stains, and what concerningly looks like blood across the skirt. He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “You are _so_ lucky...that the greatest weaver in Eorzea is your best friend,” he tells her. Lyse sighs in relief. “How much time do we have before you need to make an appearance?”

Lyse rocks on her heels. “I don’t know, Hien told me to just show up whenever.”

A’chago gives her a withering stare. “Lyse, this is clearly an excuse for him to show off the Enclave to impress you. The longer you keep him waiting, the more sad and kicked-puppy-like he’s going to become. When are they serving dinner?” 

“Food starts in about four bells.”

 _Four bells_ -A’chago pinches his nose. Alright. He can do this. He pulls a red yukata out of his bag. “Go put this on and go find your man and convince him that you’re not abandoning him,” he orders her. “Then before dinner, come back and I should have this finished.” 

Lyse thanks him profusely and darts out the door once she’s changed. A’chago looks back at the tattered dress. He pulls both his ears, hard, and groans. 

After a lengthy bit of analyzing, he determines that the crux of the matter is that the fabric is still bloody in places. He won’t be able to sew with it like this. He goes over to the washtub and begins making a mixture of cold water and salt. He sponges the stains delicately, then lets them sit for a while as he plans his next move. 

Besides a tattered shoulder strap and a sizable rip in the skirt, and the blood, the dress isn’t in as bad of a shape as he anticipated. The pants, thankfully, are just dirty, and surprisingly none of the gold embellishments have been too badly damaged. The chest piece is a bit dented, but he brought his hammer and a new sapphire for that exact reason. While the fabric dries, he gets to work outfitting the new chest piece. 

Time passes quickly while he works. The blood stain has lifted _just_ enough that it blends in with the red of the silk in lowlight, which is probably as good as it’ll get with the timeframe he has. He washes and washes and washes the pants again, dunking them into cold water and vinegar until they shine. The new sapphire sits neatly in a gold encasement at the bottom of the chest wrap, the rip in the dress has been neatly stitched closed. Ala Mhigan silk is not nearly as fine as Doman or even Thavnairan silk, but it’s still a bitch to get the right amount of tension and he almost runs out of embroidery thread (but he’ll be damned if he has to use his regular thread on such a fine fabric). 

Finally, though, it’s finished. A’chago leans back to admire his work and wipes the sweat off his brow. _Not bad. Not bad if I do say so myself,_ he thinks. 

Lyse comes back not a moment later, and when she sees what he’s done she gasps. Tears flood her eyes as she stares at the dress. “Oh, A’chago,” she whispers, “It’s beautiful.”

A’chago feels pride bloom in his chest. His tail whaps back and forth behind him as his ears wiggle. 

Lyse embraces him. “Thank you so much. Truly. To see Yda’s dress restored, it almost feels as though her memory has been, too.” 

He hugs her back tightly, then steps back. “You’re welcome,” he says. “Now, go put that on and _rock Hien’s world.”_

She blushes almost as red as her yakuta and all but shoves him out the door. “Are you going to stay?” she calls through the paper. 

A’chago had considered it, while he was working and the scent of freshly baked fish was threatening to distract him from his task entirely. It’s been a while since he’s been to the Enclave, longer still since he’s seen Hien himself, but as much as he’d like to he’s got someone waiting at home for him. Just thinking about it makes him feel giddy. 

“I’d love to, but I can’t,” he answers. “I promised my partner I’d be home tonight.”  
Lyse yanks open the shoji so hard for a second he worries that it’ll rip. “ _Partner?!_ What the hell have you been up to? You and I are having a long conversation tomorrow, so be back here by breakfast!”

“Lyse, the time difference…” A’chago tries to start, but she jabs a finger in his chest. 

“It has been too long since we last talked! I want to know _all_ about this new “partner”.” Then she breaks out into a grin. “Look at us. Gods, we’re lucky.” She sweeps her arms out, gesturing to the room but also to the space between them. 

A’chago thinks about everything they’ve been through. Everything they’ve lost. Everything they have now. He thinks of Raha, waiting for him at home, and his tail thumps happily against his leg. “Yeah,” he says with a soft smile. “We really are.”


	2. Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleos falters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I did change Eleos' relationship to Hades from biological son to like, mentor dad? Sort of ? Right now I'm going with the idea that there aren't really traditional "parents" in Amaurotine society, but Hades is responsible for Eleos. His guardian ig. They're friends tho.

Eleos was restless, unbearably so. It had been months since he’d last journeyed out of Amaurot, but even though it was pocket change compared to his lifespan, he felt as if it had been millenia. He swayed back and forth on his heels, daydreaming of the ocean and the high seas. 

He was having a bit of a pirate phase. 

Something about the ocean was so _inviting_ , though. He had never felt at home in Amaurot, even though it was where he was raised. He was born on one of the islands across the sea and sometimes it felt like the sea breeze was in his very bones. He wanted to be with the wind and the sun, and out of these _godforsaken robes_. Nobody cared how individualized or selfish or whatever you want to be when you’re alone-but more than that, he wanted to _learn_. Be _free_. Meet new people, experience new things, have adventures...he’s always been shit at Creation, but when he’s out traveling, he sort of feels like he’s creating joy. Or something. 

“Eleos, are you listening?” his friend, Hades, interrupts. The older Amaurotine is like a father to him...with all the annoying lectures included. 

Eleos slides a finger under his mask and smiles nervously. “Yes?”

Hades sighs. “What were we talking about?”

Eleos racks his brain. Something something…“The Convocation.”

That earns him an approving nod. “The seat of the fourteenth is opening soon, that of Azem. Hythlodaeus and I were considering recommending you.” 

The _Convocation_? Eleos makes a face. It sounds like a load of boring political stuff. He’d probably never be able to escape those insufferably long meetings. “Are you sure somebody else wouldn’t be better suited?” he asks. 

Hades taps his fingers against the railing and looks down over the city. The lamplight bounces off of his robe, shadowing his face. “I know that you abhor being forced to act responsibly, but you’re nearing two millenia now. You should at least _think_ about what you want to do with yourself. Being my ward won’t protect you forever, the convocation is already asking me what school you’re going to be applying to.”

School. The thought of sitting straight-backed in one of Akademia Anyder’s grand lecture halls mechanically taking notes on how inferior the other races are makes Eleos rankle. He doesn't know how Hythlodaeus does it. 

“Besides,” Hades continues, “The seat of Azem is that of the traveler. You would still be able to travel freely, as I know you are wont to do. You’d even be able to continue fraternizing with all the little creatures you’re so confoundingly fond of, so long as you kept it discreet.” He looks at Eleos. “Work with me, El. I’m doing this for you. You _know_ what happens to Amaurotines who don’t contribute to the community.”

Eleos turns and sets his elbows on the railing. Below him, the city is nothing but glittering lights in a wash of blue and green and gray. On one hand, he knows that Hades is right. Most of his peers have already committed to a school of study. He needs to do _something_. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d still get to travel, he’d just have to make occasional reports to the convocation. 

“I’ll think about it,” he promises Hades. 

Hades grins and grips his shoulder proudly, and Eleos offers him a small smile in return. It’ll be fine. 

Why, then, does he feel as though he’s making a huge mistake?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. do not want to do my web development quizzes. asldfkjaosfjal


	3. Muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing's not easy. That doesn't mean he doesn't want to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced domestic assault, implied/referenced suicidal ideation & self harm  
> this is dark, folks, please mind the tags. 
> 
> the childhood events that zacelle is referencing take place in "on the golden hill" if you're really curious, but it's exactly whatever you're thinking.

“What is there even to _say?_ ” A’chago snarls, fingernails digging into his arms as he hunches in on himself. “I fucked up. _I’m_ fucked up.”

Zacelle says nothing, but she steeples her hands and puts them to her lips. One smooth eyebrow arches upward, an unspoken challenge. 

A’chago sinks further down into his seat. His tail thumps aggressively against it, beating out a warning to anyone who’s paying attention. 

“I won’t force you to disclose anything you don’t want to,” Zacelle starts, “But I need to know what I’m dealing with.” She rearranges the miniature chocobo plushies on her desk. Her gaze flicks to his occasionally, but he can’t discern anything in those mismatched eyes. 

“Can’t you see the evidence?” A’chago spits, jerking up out of the chair and yanking down his sweater to reveal the deep purple stains that still mark his throat. “You want to see the rest? You want to see what happened?” He shoves the sleeves up past his elbows and thrusts them in her face. Twin bruises encircle both wrists. “Look at my fucking body!” There’s more that he doesn’t bother mentioning-his eye, still swollen and so dark his markings are barely visible. The split lip that’s barely closed. The scrapes on his knuckles. The sluggishly bleeding scratch marks on the back of his shoulder, covered up with gauze and tape. 

Silence. Zacelle looks at him with a bored expression. “I read the chirurgeon’s reports. I know what he did to you. I want to know how you feel about it.”

A’chago’s tail puffs up to twice its normal size. _I feel bad_ , he thinks. _I feel fucking horrible. I hate myself. I hate Ilberd. I hate that I let this happen._

As soon as he thinks that, though, all the fight leaves him. He deflates. He let this happen. He did this to himself. He sinks back into the chair and says nothing. 

Zacelle’s face contorts to the closest thing to sympathy he’s ever seen from her. “If you feel like it’s your fault, it’s not. We’ll repeat it as many times as we need to until you believe it.”

But it is. Everything is. He’s the Warrior of Light, he should have protected himself. He shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place. He...let somebody else ruin him all over again, gods, why does this keep _happening?_ Is he always going to repeat these mistakes? Is he always going to end up here, used and half-dead and turned inside-out?

He deserves it. 

“I deserve everything that happens to me,” he whispers, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He ducks his head. His eyes are burning and he blinks tightly against the sensation. “Everything.”

“Why do you think you deserve everything that happens to you?” Zacelle asks. 

Instead of answering, A’chago lifts his head to stare out the window. It’s snowing again. It always snows at Camp Dragonhead. He feels so, _so_ stripped right now. He’s not wearing enough clothes. He wraps one hand around a bruised wrist and squeezes until the pain makes his teeth ache. 

He wishes he was the snow. He’d melt away and no one would ever touch him again. 

“A’chago?”

A’chago drags his gaze back to her. Zacelle’s buzzed blue hair looks grey in the light. He musters up the strength to answer her. 

“It’s just...” A’chago looks back out the window to avoid looking at his therapist. “Something my uncle used to say.” The snow is falling faster now. He should start a fire when he gets back to his room. 

Zacelle is still waiting patiently for him to continue, so he takes a breath and explains, “I’m the Warrior of Light. I should be able to take care of myself.”

“You’re not invincible. Ilberd shouldn’t have abused you.”

A’chago winces at the word, but it doesn’t hurt anymore than the black eye or the orbital fracture. “You know what the worst part is?” he asks. “The worst part is, it wasn’t even about me. He’d come home worked up from an assignment, or something that Alphinaud said, or-or, I don’t know, his feet were sore. And he’d hit me. Because I was there. Because I let him.” 

Zacelle makes a note in her journal. “You were surviving,” she tells him without looking up. “You did what you had to to survive.”

“Maybe,” A’chago says. Something dark and bitter twists in his gut. “Maybe I just liked it.” 

That catches her attention. She sets her quill down and folds her hands together on the table. 

A’chago immediately flushed with embarrassment. He-he didn’t mean to say that out loud. The look in her eye tells him that she’s not letting this go, though, so he says, “I-I didn’t _want_ it to happen.” 

“Naturally.”

“I just meant-you know, since my uncle-” the something dark and bitter turns into a chasm. Oh, gods, he hates himself. He hates himself so viciously he wants to take his sword and run himself through. He wants to rip his skin open and tear out all the fucked up parts of himself and light them on fire. “I’m-I can’t-I’m not-”

Heat floods through his body and his hands start tingling like he got hit by paralysis. He can’t breathe. 

Zacelle wordlessly hands him a lemon and he bites down on it, hard. The bitterness is shocking enough that it stops his panic attack in its tracks. The juice stings the scrapes on his hands. 

It takes a while to breathe normally again, but once he does, his shoulders fall and he lets his feet rest on the ground. He fists his hands in his pants. 

“You’re worried that because of your uncle, you only know how to accept love when it’s coming from somebody in a position of authority abusing you,” Zacelle says for him. He nods wordlessly. 

She tells him, firmly, “The aetheric pathways in your soul that develop as a result of surviving childhood abuse are difficult to rewire, but it’s absolutely possible. That’s why you’re here. To rewire your aether. It is not your fault that your uncle left this impact on you. You were a child.”

A’chago feels tears prickle behind his nose. He pulls on both his ears. “I hate this,” he whispers. 

Zacelle looks at him sadly. “It won’t last. You will wake up one day and realize you haven’t had a bad day in months. You’ll love people who love you back, and it won’t hurt. Healing is not linear by any means, but this is where you start.” 

A’chago looks at her. “This is where I start,” he repeats. 

This is where he starts. 

This is where he starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not me projecting onto my boy ahaha  
> nah but this is therapy 4 me and i always feel so much better after dumping it all out on the page, i started writing this feeling like shit and now i'm good


	4. Clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the world somehow starts to shine, shine, with you by my side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> owijafdjlke the first definition of clinch i found was the freaking construction one and not the wrestling one WE COULD'VE HAD IT ALL

Construction is not a noise usually heard in Saint Coinach’s Find. Nevertheless, the silence is punctuated by the sounds of drilling, hammering, and Cid’s irritated shouts at Nero. 

A’chago wipes the sweat off his brow and leans back on his heels. He’s been outfitted with a hammer and nails and shooed away to the rafters while the rest of the researchers worked on deciphering the tower’s secrets. 

“Unless you truly wish to spend your time nose deep in papers-or sent out to find more aethersand-I highly recommend you stop complaining and get to work,” Cid had suggested, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers as if the act alone could ward off the headache that was Nero tol Scaeva. A’chago had never seen Cid anything other than collected, even during Garuda, so he hightailed it out of there as soon as he could.

Which led to him precariously balancing on a long beam of wood some thirty or so fulms in the air, the only thing preventing him from plummeting to his death being the tight grip of his thighs. 

At least the breeze is nice. A’chago adjusts his position to alleviate the numbness in his ass. He’d been sent up to clinch some nails that were sticking out of the rafters up here, but he keeps getting distracted. The sky is clear for once, the soap film bubbles of gloom nowhere in sight. His only companions are the sun and the sky. 

A’chago grips the beam with both hands and carefully shifts until he’s laying face down stretched out on his stomach. The sun warms his back and dries the sweat that’s pooled at the small of it. 

Cid won’t mind if he just takes a quick nap. His tail flicks once, twice, and then he lets his eyes drift shut. 

“Well, don’t you look comfortable,” a smooth and deep voice says. 

A’chago yelps and sits up so fast he loses his balance. Right as he makes peace with breaking every bone in his body, a hand seizes his collar and holds him steady. He looks up at his rescuer and gulps.

G’raha Tia is staring down at him, eyes wide with concern but a smile already on his face. He’s got one muscled arm gripping A’chago’s shirt like a lifeline, and the other wrapped around one of the supports. The tendons in his forearm flex and A’chago’s mouth goes dry. He looks like the sun. 

“Cat got your tongue?” G’raha asks cheekily. He hauls A’chago up and back onto the platform, then dusts him off for good measure. A’chago just stares at him like an idiot. 

G’raha’s ears swivel back and forth. “I...er, you must be wondering why I’m here. I’m glad I was-would be quite a disaster if a lowly researcher like myself took out the Warrior of Light by _startling_ him-but…” he trails off. 

A’chago finally comes to his senses. “No, thank you,” he says in a rush. “Nice arms-reflexes. You have, uh, you have nice reflexes.” He mentally kicks himself.

Somehow, G’raha isn’t put off by his idiotic stumbling. Instead, the other man gives him a sly grin. “I may be an academic, but let none forget that I am _also_ the most skilled bowman in the G tribe.” He flexes to demonstrate. “Of course, you’re not too shabby yourself, Mr. Warrior of Light,” he adds, poking A’chago in the chest with one long finger. 

_Change the topic. Emergency. Emergency!_ “So…” A’chago interrupts, leaning against the crystal and crossing his arms, “You come here often?”

“I-no?”

For a second A’chago doesn’t reply, just smiles and nods. Then G’raha’s response sinks in and he physically jolts. “Right. Ha.” He smiles too-big and G’raha looks at him like he’s not sure if he should call the chirurgeon or crack a joke. 

_Stop right now,_ he thinks to himself. _Just shut up. Please, for the love of Azeyma, shut up._

He opens his mouth again. “Can we get out of here?”

Finally, he says something relatively normal. G’raha stops looking at him like he grew a second head and smiles brightly. _Fuck, he’s pretty._

They make it down to the ground safely, no broken bones or leaps of faith necessary. A’chago takes a deep breath and tries not to combust when G’raha steadies himself using his shoulder. 

G’raha drives him mad. He’s always touching, smiling, being handsome, being hilarious, making the A’chago’s world brighter just by existing. The worst part of it is that he’s not entirely sure if G’raha’s just being friendly or if there’s something else. 

Instead of focusing on that, though, his attention is caught by a tiny au ra researcher carrying a huge platter of sandwiches to Syrcus Trench. His stomach rumbles. 

“Oh, those look good,” G’raha says wistfully. “I believe they’re for the Ironworks employees at the tower, though.”

A second researcher comes up and begins talking to the first, prompting her to set the platter down on a nearby crate. The cogs start turning in A’chago’s head. 

A’chago turns to G’raha with a wicked grin. “Stay close,” he tells him. 

“What?”

A’chago takes off running toward the lake, only turning around to flash G’raha a confident smile before turning back round and continuing. As he passes the crate, he swipes as many sandwiches as he can hold. 

“A’chago!” he hears G’raha shout behind him in the distance. The indignant squawks of the researcher follow, and not a few curse words. 

A’chago laughs gleefully, clutching his bounty to his chest and sprinting to the lake. He dodges cobras and gigas and rocks before finally coming to a stop at the shore. 

G’raha comes up panting behind him a few moments later. “What-why?” he gasps. 

_Because you wanted one._ A’chago shrugs and takes a bite of his stolen sandwich. He’d managed to get away with four, so he offers two to G’raha. After a pause, G’raha takes them. 

“Stealing? My, what an unheroic thing to do. Eorzea will be devastated to see how far her hero has fallen,” G’raha says, taking a bite. He immediately closes his eyes in bliss.

A’chago settles down into a squat. “Good. Maybe then they’ll stop inviting me to political meetings.” The sun reflects off the clear waters of the lake, making it look just as crystallized as the surrounding land. 

G’raha takes a seat next to him. “You know, you’re not exactly what I expected when I was told I’d be meeting the Warrior of Light.”

“Uh, rude.”

“Oh, come off it. I’m trying to compliment you, you buffoon.” G’raha knocks his shoulder against A’chago’s. It makes something nervous and flighty bloom in his chest. 

He turns to G’raha and cracks a grin to cover it up. “Now I’m curious. Please, keep going.”

“Egoist.”

“Simp.”

G’raha laughs. His head tips back and the sun makes his red hair glow like fire, bright like happiness incarnate. A’chago stares at it longer than necessary. “Fine,” he relents. “You’re...much more average than I was expecting.”

A’chago shoves him hard enough to push him onto his side. “I thought you said you were going to compliment me!”

“I am! Let me finish!” G’raha pulls himself back up into a seated position, his legs stretched out in front of him. He leans back on his hands and his face takes on a much more serious expression. “I was worried you’d be distant and, well, too important to concern yourself with a random researcher. But you’re not. You’re modest, and kind, and insufferably good natured. When I came on this journey, I expected to be spending my days tail-deep in research. I never expected to meet one of my dearest friends.”

A’chago’s whole entire face lights up. Happiness is a physical brightness that warms him from head to toe. He grins like it’s his nameday. His tail and his ears beat out a rhythm of joy. 

G’raha turns bright red. “Shut up,” he tells A’chago. “I’m never singing your praises again.”

“I haven’t said anything,” A’chago points out, ears wiggling. He leans into G’raha’s personal space. “But I’m your dearest friend?”

“Not if you keep this up!”

“Am I more?”

Silence falls over the beach. A’chago doesn’t know what compelled him to ask that, but he realizes what he just implied with startling clarity. The grin melts off his face and he looks, wide-eyed, at G’raha. 

G’raha’s blush has faded and he, too, is stunned into silence. His mismatched eyes dart between A’chago’s. 

The waves roll gently onto the shore. Above them, a gull cries. 

“Are you mocking me?” G’raha whispers. 

“No, never,” A’chago breathes. The sandwich lies forgotten at his side as he tentatively reaches out to touch G’raha’s arm. “Can-can I-”

Words aren’t his strong suit. They’re slippery, and difficult, and even now, a million malms from Meracydia, sometimes they escape him entirely. He curls his fingers just barely, and looks at G’raha’s mouth. 

Surging forward, G’raha gives him the answer he’d been hoping for. A’chago falls backward and lets the bright light of happiness engulf him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now kith


	5. Matter of Fact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was _not_ feeling this prompt...but that's what the challenge is for! Post everyday, no matter what :)

A’chago stares at the Borlaaq merchant. She stares back unflinchingly. The sun beats down on both of them, hot and overbearing, making A’chago sweat underneath his thick tiger skin coat. 

“15,000 gil,” A’chago says. 

“30,000,” the merchant fires back.

“20,000.”

“30,000.”

“22,000.”

“Thirty- _one_ thousand,” she says matter-of-factly. 

“Shit! Fine, damn,” A’chago grumbles, pulling leather pouches out of his bag. He sets them down with a resounding clink on the merchant’s wooden stall, trying not to let his displeasure show too much. The woman gives him a sharp-toothed grin _entirely_ too reminiscent of Rowena and hands him the open violin case. 

The violin is a beautiful thing, all cherry dark wood and shiny steel strings. Even though the steppe is dry, it doesn’t seem to have affected the instrument all that much. A’chago gives the A string a cautionary pluck. The discordant note makes his ears fly back. It’s out of tune, wildly, but that’s to be expected. When he gives the pegs a slight twist, they stick and don't slide. 

The bow is in a little worse shape. It doesn’t look like it’d been loosened at all during the merchant’s journeys, and was almost a little bent in the middle where the hairs had pulled taut. Gently, A’chago loosens it as much as he dares. To his relief, the bow returns to its natural, straight position. 

“Pleasure doing business with you, foreigner,” the Borlaaq woman says, weighing the pouches on her scale. Satisfied, she waves over the next customer. 

A’chago feels the loss of 31,000 gil all too keenly (that’ll be another thirty odd jobs, _ugh_ ) but once he saw the instrument he knew he couldn’t leave it behind. He opens the case again just to look at it. 

Gods, it really is a beautiful thing. He’s got to show it to Guydelot, it’ll make him jealous as hell. Grinning, A’chago carefully slings it over his shoulder next to his greatsword and begins the teleportation spell to Gridania.


	6. Free Prompt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior of Light is far from invincible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if these nonverbal episodes are like, a thing or not? but anyways I used to get them all the time and it was so annoying because my friends would be like "what is wrong!!!" and i'd like, not even register them. like i knew they were talking to me but it was like everything was underwater?? and i literally had no thoughts at all, just emptiness. absolutely wack i'm telling you!! but the hand holding thing worked v well and @ my bff who figured it out and would just quietly hold my hand until i "came back", ty king <3 ily <33

As soon as the Exarch makes it back to his private quarters, he drops the stiff posture and rubs the back of his neck. Briefings with the guard have become more and more worrying lately, especially after Vauthry’s attack on Lakeland. Sin eaters are still running rampant. A whole horde of them popped up near Sullen. The Exarch sets his staff down on the table and walks into the sitting room. 

A’chago Tia is curled up on the cushy red loveseat, staring into the fire with a disturbingly blank face. The Exarch thanks his lucky stars that he hadn’t taken off his hood yet. 

“My friend! I apologize, time must have escaped me. I hadn’t realized my meeting went overlong. Have I kept you waiting?” As he talks, he moves to sit on the ottoman. 

There’s no answer. The Exarch looks closer at the Warrior of Light. 

He looks, for all intents and purposes, as though he hadn’t even heard him. The Exarch clears his throat, but the only indication that A’chago is aware of him is the reflexive flick of an ear. 

He tries again. “A’chago?”

Nothing. Worry knots in the Exarch’s gut. He’s as silent as one who’s nearing the turn. Swiftly, the Exarch moves to kneel in front of him. 

“A’chago. Are you alright?”

A’chago looks at the Exarch blankly. There’s no recognition. He may as well be a doll. It’s so uncharacteristic from his usual exuberant, chatty self that the Exarch has to stamp down the panic that rises in his chest. 

The Exarch swallows hard. He casts a quick cure, but nothing changes. A’chago keeps looking at him emptily. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” the Exarch tells him. “Have you-are you Silenced?” He casts Esuna and still, nothing happens. 

By now worry is making his throat dry out and his palms sweat. He wipes them on his cloak and grabs A’chago’s hand in his own. 

“Please, my friend. Talk to me. What plagues you?” He raises his voice slightly. Perhaps A’chago can’t hear him?

_Still_ no response. The hand in his is limp, but there’s a steady pulse at the wrist and it’s still warm. The Exarch hurriedly stands up. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, “But I’m going to fetch the Scions.”

A’chago doesn’t even look at him, just keeps his unfocused gaze on where the Exarch had been kneeling. He turns tail and runs out the door.

* * *

He blows by the Crystarium Guard, then thinks better of it and doubles back. 

“My lord?” the guard asks. 

“Under no circumstances is anyone to enter the tower besides myself and those in my company,” the Exarch instructs him. The guard looks at him with a confused expression, but salutes him regardless. Satisfied, the Exarch continues down the steps. 

The Scions should all be in the Crystarium, but in his panic he can’t focus on where they might be. He looks back and forth, distraught. People are beginning to notice his demeanor. 

He forcibly schools himself. It wouldn’t do any good to let his fear bleed into his behavior. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with A’chago, but hopefully the Scions will. 

Like a prayer answered, he spies Alisaie sauntering toward the Quadrivium. 

“Alisaie!” he calls. “Mistress Alisaie!” 

She doesn’t seem to hear him. For a brief second, the Exarch wonders if perhaps _he’s_ the one who turned invisible, but then he gathers his robes around his knees and takes off after her. 

The sound of him approaching rouses her, and she finally turns around. “Exarch?!’

He comes to a halt in front of her. “Thank goodness,” he pants. “Please, the Warrior of Light is unwell.”

That gets her attention. She nods at him, seriously, and together they run back to the tower. 

Once outside the doors to his quarters, the Exarch turns to Alisaie. “‘Tis not unusual for him to visit me in between my meetings, but he is-I don’t know.” He opens the door and Alisaie makes a beeline for the sofa.

“A’chago? Gods, there you are.” She kneels in front of him and looks in his eyes. A’chago gives no response. The Exarch rubs his wrist raw as he watches. 

After a moment, Alisaie stands. She walks back over to the Exarch, and when she speaks, her voice is low. “Sort of a longshot, but can we make this room darker?”

The Exarch nods. He waves his hand and the tower dims itself. The fireplace also goes out, but if A’chago noticed any of this, he gives no evidence. 

Alisaie takes a breath. “Sometimes this happens. Alphinaud or Urianger could tell you the ins-and-outs of it, but all I know is how to help him when he’s like this.” Her voice is still quiet, barely more than a whisper, and the Exarch follows her lead .

“Does this happen often?” he asks. 

“More often than it should,” she replies with a wince. “According to him, he’s been dealing with it ever since he was a child.” 

The Exarch looks at his friend. He’s by no means a large man-but he looks impossibly small like this, knees drawn to his chest and arms loosely wrapped around them, isolated in the very center of the loveseat, barely touching it at all. He’s barely illuminated by the dim light of the tower. 

“What now?” the Exarch asks Alisaie.

She stretches. “You have to-gods, this is going to sound weird-you have to hold his hand really hard. Something about deep pressure and proprioceptive input. But don’t touch him too much, either. Just a hand.” She approaches the couch and sits on A’chago’s right, careful not to brush up against him. She takes one of his hands in her own and gives it a reassuring squeeze. 

The Exarch watches them closely. It doesn’t seem to be doing anything. 

Alisaie gestures him over. “He came here, instead of to any of us, so I reckon he won’t mind if you help. Take his other hand, it might speed things up.” 

Swallowing nervously, the Exarch sits on A’chago’s left and tentatively takes his hand. He holds it carefully with his non-crystal hand. 

The three of them sit in silence for a while, the only sound being their breathing and the low hum of the tower. The Exarch feels his anxiety ramp up by the second as A’chago continues to sit there motionless. 

“Relax,” Alisaie whispers to him. “I can feel your anxiety from here. Try to calm down-you’ll make it worse if he can tell you’re nervous.”

The Exarch flushes. He takes a deep, steadying breath and tries to clear his mind. The absurdity of it all suddenly gets to him. Here he is, in a dark room, holding his inspiration’s hand, as said inspiration has some sort of _episode…_

Briefly, he remembers how his expectations of the Warrior of Light had been shattered when he first met him all those centuries ago. He had been expecting a brave, selfless martyr straight out of one of his epics-and while the man next to him certainly embodied those qualities at times, he’d also been nervous, overeager, and awkward. Heartbreakingly normal. 

He wonders when he let the idea of A’chago overwrite reality. The thought sits with him uncomfortably in the stark silence.

Suddenly, an ear-splitting chime sounds, echoing off the crystal walls. The Exarch jolts upright and A’chago flinches _hard._ Before the Exarch can celebrate this meager victory, Alisiae is jumping off the couch. 

“ _Shit_ , it’s Alphinaud,” she says, fumbling with her linkpearl. “I have to take this. I’m sorry.” Quick as a flash, she darts out the door. 

It takes a moment for the Exarch to fully relax again. He almost forgets to keep pressure steady on A’chago’s hand, but redoubles his efforts as soon as he remembers. 

He glances at A’chago’s free hand. There is no telling how long Alisaie will be gone for. 

Before he could think better of it, the Exarch transitions the hand he’s holding to his crystal hand, and grasps A’chago’s free hand the other. The change in position means they’re slightly angled toward each other now, but the Exarch is mindful to not crowd him. Instead, he just rests and focuses on his own breathing. 

The initial awkwardness fades away after a few moments. Soon enough he finds himself enjoying this quiet, companionable silence, although he hates that it comes at the expense of his friend’s peace of mind. He gives A’chago’s hands a firm squeeze in what he hopes comes across as a comforting gesture. 

While he waits (for what? A reaction? A word?) he looks at A’chago’s hands. They’re darker than his own by a fair amount, and heavily scarred. They weren’t nearly this scarred during the excavations. He traces a particular long one with his index finger and wonders where it came from. After he finishes cataloguing all of them on each hand, he looks at A’chago’s bare forearms. 

These, too, have not been spared by the battles he’d had to fight. The Exarch sucks in a tight breath when he notices the too-uniform row of sun-darkened scars along his inner arm, up near the elbow. Some of them were over a decade old, and he was familiar with them, but what had once only encompassed a meager amount of space on both forearms was now encroaching on his wrists. 

Some of them don’t look old at all. 

“This life has not been kind to you,” the Exarch whispers under his breath. Misery clouds his voice. Not for the first time, he finds himself wishing to reveal everything to the man in front of him. 

A’chago’s breathing changes just slightly. The Exarch looks at him, confused, and he’s met with two firebright eyes looking directly into his. They dart between his own, a cascade of emotions as the owner tries to assess the situation he’s in. 

“Exarch?” A’chago murmurs. His voice is cracked and throaty. His hands twitch, and then he seems to realize where he is and who he’s with. Relief floods his features and he pitches forward, resting his head against the Exarch’s shoulder. 

The Exarch is shifted back by the momentum. A surprised little “oh” escapes him. A’chago grips his hands tightly and his shoulders shake. Tears fall on the Exarch’s skin. 

“A’chago?” he asks, bewildered. Alisiae didn’t tell him about _this._ What does he do? 

“Sorry,” his friend mumbles, sniffing. “It happens. It’ll pass.” He turns his head so that his cheek is resting against the Exarch’s shoulder and he’s looking at the back of the couch. 

Soon enough he leans back, letting go of the Exarch’s hands to wipe away any remaining tears. “Sorry,” he repeats, smiling weakly. “This hasn’t happened in a while.”

“Please, don’t apologize,” the Exarch says in earnest. “I-what _is_ ‘this’?”

A’chago clasps his hands and looks away, grinning nervously. “Oh, gods,” he says. “This is embarrassing. Sometimes when...everything becomes too much, I just shut down.”

The Exarch folds his own hands in his lap. “I see. And does this happen often?”

“No, thankfully. I can usually tell when it’s going to happen and I’ll go somewhere safe to ride it out.”

Although he’s never experienced this before, with himself or anyone else, it makes sense. To be the Warrior of Light _and_ Darkness must be to exist under a tremendous amount of stress. He thinks A’chago’s explanation over in his head, and then something clicks. “You came here.”

Even in the low light, A’chago’s blush is visible. For a moment, the Exarch thinks he’ll deflect and disappear. Instead, he squares his shoulders. “Yes. I came here.”

To have such a blatant confirmation of A’chago’s trust makes his heart swell in his chest. It also makes something sharp and painful twist in his gut. _You shouldn’t trust me. I’m going to hurt you no matter what I do._

Instead of ruminating on such thoughts, however, the Exarch smiles softly. “Full glad am I to be chosen. You are always safe here, in the tower-this I promise you.” 

If A’chago notices his careful word choice, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he relaxes and gives the Exarch a teary-eyed grin. “Thank you. This means more to me than you know.” Wiping his eyes one last time, A’chago stands up and stretches his legs. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Care to join me for dinner?”

The Exarch smiles. “I’d be honored.”

_I’m sorry._

_This story won’t end well for either of us._


	7. Nonagenarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nonagenarian: someone who's between ninety and ninety-nine years of age

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short & sweet! will i ever write something that isn't extremely dialogue heavy? who knows!

It’s a quiet evening in the Rising Stones when a thought pops into A’chago’s head-well, popped is an understatement. It burst through the doors of his mind and grabbed him by the neck and throttled him, so violently did it demand to be looked at. Distressed, A’chago puts his elbows on the table and holds his head in his hands. 

The thought in question was really more a chain, but it went like this: He took an age slowing potion. He took it when he was nineteen. To any who looked at him, he might still appear nineteen. However, he is currently twenty-eight years old, which is nearly thirty, which means-

He stares at the man idly cleaning his staff next to him. G’raha’s ear twitches under the weight of his gaze. After a beat, G’raha sighs and rests his staff on the table. “Yes, my love?” he addresses A’chago. 

A’chago squints at him. The Crystal Tower raids were, what? Four years ago? And G’raha is only twenty-four, gods! When he was mentally twenty-three it didn’t seem like such a big difference, but for some reason, now that it’s a four year difference with _him_ the elder, it won’t leave him alone. 

G’raha looks at him with an amused expression. “What are you thinking so hard about? I can hear the cogs whirring from here.” He shifts in his seat to press a kiss to A’chago’s lips. 

A’chago jerks away. 

“Is aught the matter?” G’raha asks, following A’chago’s mouth only to be met with a firm hand on his chest. “Chago?”

A’chago huffs. “It’s just...you’re so young,” he finishes lamely. 

G’raha raises an eyebrow and smirks. “My, I was unaware the Warrior of Light was such a flirt,” he says. “I’m not _that_ young.”

“You are!” A’chago insists. “I’m twenty eight, which is nearly thirty summers old, yet you’re barely twenty four. I feel like a cradle snatcher.”

G’raha laughs openly at that. “A cradle snatcher? Over four years’ difference?”

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“My love,” G’raha gasps for breath, wiping away a tear in his eye. “You’re forgetting that I am three-hundred and twenty-four years old, and _you_ \- though I must admit, you still act like a nineteen year old - are _only twenty-eight_. If anything, _I_ am the cradle snatcher.” 

He watches as the gears turn in A’chago’s head, and can pinpoint the moment that the lightbulb went off. “Oh,” the other man says, smiling despite himself, “I suppose you’re right.”

G’raha hums in reply. “Though I suppose I should thank you for being so devoted to protecting my innocence, I must warn you - it’s long gone.”

“Oh, shut up, you pervert,” A’chago snarks, headbutting G’raha’s chest. “Not my fault I forgot you were a gods-damned _nonagenarian_.”

“Did you learn that word from Urianger?”

“Alphinaud, actually, thanks.”

G’raha pets A’chago’s ears and rests his chin on his head. “If we’re getting into specifics, I’m actually a centenarian. Thrice over.” 

A’chago pulls his fist back and weakly hits him in the chest. “Shut up, or I swear to me that I’ll never suck you off again.”

The threat works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post 5.3 a'chago stop saying "i swear to azeyma" and starts saying "i swear to me" because he's annoying


	8. Clamor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reporters: the bane of every celebrity's existence. After years of chasing them off, Tataru can't keep them away forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was just an excuse for me to drop a'chago lore

Being the Warrior of Light meant a moderate portion of his time was devoted to escaping the myriad reporters that followed his every move. A’chago Tia fiddles with the cuff of his jacket and tries not to think about the growing crowd of journalists outside the Rising Stones. 

Usually, Tataru would be the one to fight them off-and she was good at it, too! But with the Scions returned from the First and the war with the Garleans on standby, there was nothing for the gossip rags to report on besides Eorzea’s favorite hero. A’chago honestly couldn’t blame her for succumbing to their demands. 

He’s just thankful she managed to negotiate them from a press release down to a single interview with a single magazine. Granted, it was with The Raven, but beggars can’t be choosers and whatnot. He’s glad he’ll be working with Lina Mewrilah, they already know each other thanks to their work aboard the Prima Vista. 

The roar of the crowd outside was oppressive even from within Dawn’s Respite. A’chago tries to ignore it and settle his nerves. 

G’raha comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist. “It’ll be fine,” he says, though the words become muffled as he presses his mouth into A’chago’s hair. “One interview, and hopefully they’ll be satisfied with hounding the rest of us after that.”

A’chago turns so that he faces G’raha. A strand of hair is falling in G’raha’s face, and he brings his hand up to carefully brush it away. The action elicits a warm purr that calms him down, just slightly. 

The door creaks open, and with it, the volume of the crowd increases twofold. Tataru enters the room with a somber expression. “It’s time.” 

“Twelve, it’s not like he’s going off to war,” Alisaie remarks, sauntering in and flouncing atop her bed. “You know, some of us would _kill_ to be the subject of an exclusive interview,” she says accusingly, pointing to A’chago. When all she gets is a nasty look in return, she sighs loudly and falls onto her back. “What a waste. Where’s _my_ interview? I’ve got loads of fun stories to tell.”

“It’s not like I’ve ever shied away from the papers,” A’chago corrects her, “I’ve just never done an actual interview. I’m nervous.” 

It’s true. He’s been on the front page of too many newspapers to count, in all sorts of languages, all over the world. His entire life from when he first started killing primals to now has been thoroughly dissected and analyzed. 

At first, no one had particularly cared about yet another adventurer traveling Eorzea, but the way he quickly rose through the ranks in the Immortal Flames caught many politicians’ eyes. Then came the primal slaying. Then joining the Scions. Then fighting Garlemald, and suddenly, he was the _Savior of Eorzea_ , and everyone seemed to know everything about him. 

When he was younger he hated it so much he came up with a series of fake identities just to avoid the spotlight. That plan backfired when Milhu’a Yhiyo became a world famous designer, Vonyx Moondancer got _deported_ from Ishgard during a drunken rampage, and K’razah Tia somehow managed to become initiated into the godsdamned yakuza. 

He’s shit at keeping his life private. Once he realized that, he started to embrace it: he would pose for paparazzi, do stupid things in public, make a general spectacle of himself whenever he felt like it. But he never really liked tabloids, and he always got uncomfortable with the type of information they want from him. 

“Ears up, my love,” G’raha tells him gently, slipping a hand into his own and squeezing it in sympathy. A’chago looks into his serene, loving face and feels emboldened enough to face the music. 

He lets go and steps out into the Rising Stones. Tataru directs him over to a table she’s set up in the back corner, far away from the front door. Then, she goes over to let Lina in. 

As soon as she opens the door the reporters clamor for her attention. “Tataru Taru! Can you give us a report on the Scion’s health at this time?” 

“Mistress Taru! What do you have to say about the rumors of a new member?”

“Tataru! Tataru! Is it true that the Warrior of Light is single?”

The last one makes A’chago grimace. He just saved the First and defeated the Sapphire Weapon in Terncliff, but no, all the people want to hear about is his sex life. He’d be fine talking about almost anything other than sex and his romantic life. 

“Back up, folks!” Tataru shouts, her high-pitched voice positively booming over the din of the crowd. “Lina Mewrilah! Please enter!”

The crowd quiets, disgruntled. A’chago can hear somebody unceremoniously shoving their way through by tracking the irritated grunts as the reporters get jostled. 

“Lina Mewrilah, reporting live and ready for action!” 

Tataru says something in response, but it's swallowed up when the crowd starts vying for her attention again. The resounding slam of the door muffles them just enough to make it bearable. After a few moments, the crowd outside disperses, or at least shuts up entirely. 

Tataru leads Lina over to where A’chago is waiting. He hurriedly fixes his clothes one last time-nothing fancy, just his Ronkan aiming gear-and flashes her a nervous grin. 

Lina looks good. Hasn’t changed a bit. Her seafoam green hair is tied neatly back into a ponytail now, though, and she’s got a thick brown shoulder bag slung over her arm. “Hi, A’chago, thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me,” she exclaims, bowing courteously. 

“It was either that or get thrown to the vultures,” A’chago says dismissively. “I’m glad you were available.”

She smiles and takes a seat. From her bag, she pulls out a tomestone as well as a notepad and quill. She lays all of them neatly atop the table and then folds her hands in her lap. “So, first things first-I hope it’s alright to forgo the formalities, given that we’re already acquainted-but I’ll be recording this for posterity.” She holds up the tomestone. “And I’ll be taking notes throughout, but if there’s anything you say that you absolutely don’t want published, then please don’t hesitate to tell me.”

That’s one thing he likes about Lina. She’s a reporter, but she’s never once disrespected his boundaries-and even when she was reporting on the Beoulves, she refused to mention him more than was absolutely necessary. 

He nods in agreement to her terms and she turns on the tomestone. 

“Right, then. This is Lina Mewrilah, and I’m interviewing the Warrior of Light, A’chago Tia. The date is the eighth sun of the fifth astral moon,” she tells the tomestone. After a pause, she looks back up at A’chago. “So, A’chago, to get the important things out of the way: what have you been _doing_ these past few moons? We’ve rarely heard anything from the Scions, or the Eorzean Alliance for that matter.”

And so it goes. A’chago doesn’t go into detail about Shards and sundering and the fact that Hydaelyn is perhaps just as horrible as Zodiark, albeit in the opposite direction, but he does tell her that he and the Scions were working together to eliminate a Garlean threat from behind the scenes. It’s not entirely a lie. It’s not like it makes any difference if they were doing so from here or the First, or if the Garlean threat was really an Ascian Plot To Cause Another Calamity. 

Lina takes down notes as fast as she can write them. “Fascinating,” she murmurs. “And you’re positively sure you can’t even give us a _little_ more detail?”

A’chago shrugs and smiles apologetically. “Not if I want to keep on the Alliance’s good side,” he says. It seems to be enough of an answer for Lina, who hastily moves on to the next question. 

“Now that we’ve gotten business out of the way, it’s time for the fun questions,” Lina says wickedly. She grins so wide that the candlelight glints off her fangs. “Is there anywhere you refuse to travel?”

A’chago thinks this over for a second. He’s loved all of the places he’s gone, the First most of all. “No, I’m okay with going anywhere,” he replies. “But to any of the readers, I don’t advise going to the Rift.” Just thinking about that emptiness, that vastness, that loneliness makes him shiver. “Or if you do go, don’t go alone.”

Lina gives him an odd look, but doesn’t press him to elaborate. The next few questions follow in that same vein: is there anywhere he likes or would like to go for vacation? (Home, in Thavnair.) What about his favorite region? (The Azim Steppe, or Gyr Abania, or Thanalan, but he does love the cold in Coerthas.) Where would his dream home be? (Anywhere with his friends.)

Eventually, though, the questions transition away from more general topics and into more personal ones. What was the first discipline he studied? Why? If he changed it, what made him change? (A pugilist, his sister inspired him, and he figured being a gladiator would offer more protection against primals). What is his family like? (Loud. Dysfunctional.) Where is he from? Why did he come to Eorzea? (Born in Meracydia, moved to Thavnair, traveled to Eorzea for a fresh start.) 

Lina looks like she wants to press him on that, but he gives a subtle no. His childhood is off-limits.

She finishes writing up some last few notes, and then plunks her quill down with a satisfied grin. “Alright, A’chago, we’re almost done. Just one final question submitted by our readers: what advice would you give to someone who wants to be a hero, but isn’t sure how to start?”

A’chago leans back in his seat and thanks his lucky stars that he’s escaped the interview without being subjected to any ridiculous lines of questioning. As for the last one, though... There’s so many things he wishes he knew when he was just starting out, and so many things that he knows he had to learn the hard way for it to really matter. 

Adventuring is really not a glamorous life. If someone’s looking for glory, they’re better off finding it outside of the battlefield. 

“The most important thing is to remember your scope and remember to be kind,” he finally says. “You can be a hero just by helping out your neighbor. You might only save one person, and that person might only be yourself, but to that person you’ve saved their entire world. It’s better to work on that than trying to get glory on the battlefield.” He tugs on an ear thoughtfully. “There’s not enough helpers in this world,” he adds. “People who keep their inn open longer than necessary. Or who bandage up the wayward adventurer who blows through their door. Or even just those who have a kind word after a long day. By being a helper, I promise you you’ll have more of an impact than anything I’ve ever done.” He thinks of Haurchefant. “People will love you and miss you when you’re gone, and remember you forever. You’ll create a legacy of kindness that spreads further than you could ever imagine.” 

When he finishes, Lina is staring at him slack-jawed. He blushes, but doesn’t shrink down in his seat like he wants to. This speech, this watered-down version of what G’raha had reverently told him on that cliffside in Kholusia, has become a truth he believes with his whole heart. He’s got nothing to be ashamed of. 

“Wow,” Lina says. “I’m really glad we asked that question and not the other one.”

“What was the other one?”

“If you really own a lifesize Godbert Manderville body pillow because you’re hopelessly in love with the man.”

 _Twelve_ , A’chago really hates tabloids.


	9. Lush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :eyes:

The Black Shroud’s humidity makes him feel like he’s breathing through soup, but the Shroud itself is so beautiful that he almost doesn’t mind. He shifts on Liliana’s back and switches the reins to his other hand in order to wipe the sweat off his forehead. It’s going to rain soon: the air is heavy with the promise of a good thunderstorm. 

He tilts his head back to admire the view. The trees tower over him, ancient and powerful, their lush green leaves dappled with sunshine. The azure sky peeks through the boughs. Floating motes of light drift by lazily: the glowfae’s migration must have started early this year. A’chago blows one off course and is rewarded by a furious squeaking as it tries to right itself. 

“Oh, don’t be rude,” G’raha says, pulling his own chocobo up alongside Liliana. She snaps at Tycoon and A’chago reprimands her with a slight tug on her reins. “They haven’t done anything to you.”

A’chago leans as far out of the saddle as he dares to press a kiss to G’raha’s plush lips. “They’re just cute. Makes me wanna mess with them. Kinda like someone else-”

G’raha laughs and bats him away, gently guiding Tycoon to the other side of the road. The ambient forest glow makes his hair look even brighter, like rubies. He looks warm. Inviting. 

“Eyes on the road, love,” G’raha says, smiling at him. He’s a hypocrite, he hasn’t stopped staring at A’chago since they crossed the border from the South Shroud. They make their way past the Mirror and A’chago briefly entertains the thought of stopping their journey entirely to go for a swim. 

No. The thought of his lover wet and naked was _entirely_ too tempting, and if they stopped here then he wasn’t sure they’d ever get going again. He turns his attention to keeping Liliana in a straight line on the road. 

Their journey continues in comfortable silence, the only noise being the sound of their breathing and the wind gently rustling the leaves. A’chago relaxes into the quiet. 

His gaze inevitably falls back on the man riding alongside him. G’raha is basking in the sunlight, his eyes closed, his ears relaxed against his head. His scarf has fallen open, and some stray strands of hair are escaping his clips. Fondness bursts like sweet fruit in A’chago’s chest. 

“Hey. Hey, Raha,” he says. Adding in his name is unnecessary when it’s just the two of them, but the way G’raha looks at him when he says it makes him never want to stop. 

“Yes?” G’raha asks, looking at him. His freckles are starting to show now that he’s gotten more sun lately. 

“You’re beautiful,” A’chago says simply. G’raha flushes bright red and A’chago grins, giddiness spreading through his veins. “You’re _gorgeous_.”

G’raha brings one hand up to cover his mouth. “I-what is this?” he says, muffled. He meets A’chago’s gaze, but just barely. 

Swept up by the burning desire to do _something_ , A’chago pulls Liliana to a halt and jumps off. He walks up to G’raha, who’s also stopped, and rests his arms on G’raha’s thigh. “C’mere,” he whines, gesturing for G’raha to lean down. He does, and A’chago kisses him full on the mouth in the middle of the road. When he pulls back, G’raha is staring at him in shock. 

Satisfied, A’chago climbs back onto Liliana and urges her forward. After a moment, G’raha is surging up beside him. 

As he passes, he twists, swings one leg over A’chago’s waist, and swiftly transitions from Tycoon to Liliana, all in one motion so that he’s now straddling A’chago. He grabs A’chago by the face and kisses him hard. When he finishes, he smirks at A’chago’s dazed expression. “Payback,” he whispers. 

Something competitive starts in A’chago’s chest. “Oh, it’s _on_ ,” he replies, grinning madly. 

And so it goes. A’chago tackles G’raha off of Tycoon and plants the wettest, nastiest kiss he can right on G’raha’s cheek, then gives him a raspberry for good measure. G’raha sneaks up behind him and grabs his hips and whispers in his ear until his face turns red. A’chago slaps his ass hard enough to make him yelp. G’raha holds his hand so seriously and so carefully and presses a kiss to each knuckle so reverently that A’chago nearly combusts. 

G’raha wins.


	10. Avail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenos is at best: an annoyance. At worst: a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did my research and collab'd with my peers, but as a disclaimer i do not have ptsd and this may contain potentially innacurate depictions of ptsd. i am always open to suggestion & critique though!
> 
> tw: mild psychosis as a result of being triggered, mention of panic attack, zenos being Murder Scary

Sweat drips into his eyes, but it isn’t as bad as the smoke that filled his lungs. The fires from burning piles of wreckage surround them on all sides of Rhalgr’s Reach. He can’t pinpoint where he is, where the battle has led them. He can’t see anything. Every sharp pivot he makes kicks dust up into his mouth, his eyes. Zenos raises his sword above his head, gearing up for another strike. A’chago forces his aching legs to sprint until he’s out of the path of the cleave. He’s not fast enough. Magic cuts him across his back, his calves, and he goes down hard. His greatsword flies out of his hands. 

Zenos stalks toward him, all heavy ambush predator and pure power radiating off of his body. A’chago gasps for breath. His chest heaves. Zenos tucks his stupid katana under A’chago’s chin, pressing hard enough to draw blood. His world narrows down to the steel tip of that blade, the soft skin of his throat. If Zenos puts just the _slightest_ more pressure, he’s done for. 

Zenos tilts his chin up using his sword and looks down at him. “Curious,” he says. “You still bare your teeth at me even when I have you on the ground.” He looks monstrous, silhouetted against the fire and smoke, inhumanly tall and all-encompassing, a beast made manifest, a nightmare in the waking world. The skin under his blade stings as it breaks. 

A’chago snarls in response, a growl that burns his chest where breathing in heat has seared it and rips itself from his lips. He’s a monster in his own right. He won’t let Zenos forget it. 

All the noise in the world fades away. Then Zenos is stepping backward, letting his blade hang by his side. “Get up, then,” he commands. “If you have yet the strength to snap and bite then you have the strength to face me once more. Get up.”

A’chago knows better than to take his eyes off a predator. He stands up slowly, inching toward his sword and feeling for it with his hands. Once he touches the worn, familiar hilt he wraps his fist around it and charges. 

The element of surprise does him no services when his foe simply _surpasses_ him, in every sense of the word. He fights, he blocks, he strikes, but to no avail. Zenos isn’t even slowing down. 

The hopelessness of this entire situation starts to wear him down. His lungs burn. His muscles ache. His fingers are numb from clenching his sword so tightly. His head is pounding from the exertion. And still Zenos stands. 

“It would seem I misjudged you. This ends now,” the Garlean says with a bored expression. A’chago feels fury like lightning spark deep in his stomach and he readies himself for another strike, but then Zenos slashes his blade and A’chago goes _flying_. 

_So this is what he was holding back,_ he thinks, before he hits the ground so hard the air is knocked out of him. Pain explodes at the back of his head, sharp enough that he feels it in his teeth, and it’s only by the grace of Hydaelyn herself that he stays conscious long enough to watch Zenos’s _stupid fucking_ katana shatter. He checks out with a smile on his face. _Fucker._

* * *

That was the first time he had the displeasure of fighting Zenos. It had rankled, to be defeated so easily, to be thrown aside and looked down upon. It infuriated him. It motivated him to train harder. But it wasn’t until he met Zenos for the second time that he learned to fear the man. 

He was in Doma, separated from Yugiri and Gosetsu and the Scions, and they hadn’t found Hien yet. A’chago was exploring to pass the time while the others plotted their next move. 

It was there, by the shores of the One River, where Zenos found him. 

A’chago skips stones in the river as he walks along the shoreline. The rocks that adorn the riverbed are worn smooth and flat from eons of rushing water pounding them into shape, and they’re perfect for skipping. He throws another one and admires the ripples it makes on the water. 

The sky is overcast today, it looks like it’ll rain tomorrow. A’chago throws another rock and lets out a dissatisfied grunt when it sinks immediately. 

Behind him, a heron cries and flees. The rest of the birds follow suit. He twists his ears back, listening carefully. 

There’s nothing but the babbling of the river and the distant flapping of bird wings. A’chago throws another stone. 

As it hits the water he hears a footstep behind him. He whirls around, sword drawn, but there’s nobody there. No foliage for them to hide behind, no large rocks or trees. A’chago waits carefully before sheathing his weapon. 

Must be the wind. He’s just on edge. Just stressed. 

A hot puff of breath in his ear. A presence behind him. A’chago surges forward and away from whatever it is, but again, there’s nothing. 

Now he’s starting to get upset. “Who’s out there? Show yourself!” he demands, shouting. There’s only one man who’s ever been able to sneak up on him, and he’s presumed dead in Meracydia.   
A’chago gets the distinct feeling that he’s being hunted. Watched. He casts Unleash just in case his enemy is invisible. 

Nothing. A’chago strains his eyes as hard as he can, but he doesn’t see _anything_. It’s starting to get frustrating. 

“Come out! Coward!”

A hand wraps itself around his wrist and drags him around. A’chago is suddenly staring up at Zenos yae Galvus. All his curses die in his throat. _Why is Zenos here?_

“Are you sufficiently aggravated?” Zenos asks, holding him up with one arm to look him in the face. “Hm...Yes, there’s that bloodlust.”

“You creepy motherfucker, put me _down!_ ” A’chago shouts, kicking Zenos in the chest. Zenos barely reacts, but he drops A’chago gracelessly onto the sand. All A’chago can think about is putting space between them. 

He immediately aims his sword for Zenos’s heart, but Zenos simply plucks it out of his hands like he would a toy. For a moment, A’chago is too shocked to do anything. 

Zenos leans down to speak to him. “I am going to hunt you, beast. And then I am going to catch you. And then I am going to kill you.” 

He says it so coldly. Fear races up A’chago’s spine like ice. He covers it up quickly with rage. “Like hell you will,” he spits, snarling in Zenos’s face. He puts all the dark energy he can into making himself look frightening and powerful.

If Zenos is intimidated, he doesn’t show it behind his helm. He throws A’chago’s sword away and gathers both his wrists in one giant hand. “Look at you,” he says, reverent, pulling A’chago closer so he can look him in the eye, “so furious. You wear savagery like a woman wears silks.”

_Hands. My hands. Get the fuck off my hands,_ A’chago thinks frantically. For a second all he registers is pressure around his wrists and a large body in front of him, and he twists viciously to free himself. It doesn’t work (it never did). _Let go of my hands-_ He kicks out and it meets metal- _flesh_ -armor, throws his head back against nothing- _a soft mattress_ -but air. 

By the grace of whatever God was listening, Zenos lets him go. A’chago pants heavily and tries to reorient himself. He doesn’t have time to break down or have a panic attack-not with such an unpredictable enemy in front of him, not when he’s so sorely outmatched. He forces himself to focus. _Keep it together just a little longer. Sand beneath your feet. Water in your ears. Threat right in front of you._ It only half works. His heart still beats erratically. 

Zenos observes him silently. “I am going to give you a head start, Warrior,” he says simply. “So go ahead. _Run._ ”

He runs. He has to. He can’t fight like this. 

It doesn’t make him feel any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i mean honestly. a'chago is just me if i _had_ developed ptsd over my tragic anime backstory (and my tragic anime backstory was more...everything ig. violent. scary. mine was just insidious & confusing)


	11. Ultracrepidarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When A'chago was eight, his big sister A'zhikyo was awarded a scholarship to study in Sharlyan with the Students of Baldesion. Not everyone is thrilled about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to put as much context in this as felt natural, but some background information:  
> There's two factions of the A tribe, which split after A'chago's great-grandfather expanded the tribe's territory and was rewarded with the title of Nunh for his efforts. The "original" faction moved to Gridania, the newer faction remains in Thanalan. Eventually, the newer faction moved to Meracydia.   
> A'chago's father, A'shut, has seven children: A'sosne, A'jetnu, A'zhikyo, A'chofso, A'thalbi, A'mesca, and A'chago. A'mesca and A'chago are twins, and their mother is A'milhu Yhiyo, who's from the original faction, and is A'shut's current wife.

The front door slams hard enough that it rattles the kitchen table. A’chago groans when his meticulously stacked tower of cards falls apart. Mesca gasps in horror. 

“Zhikyo!” she cries out in despair, slamming her hands on the table. A’chago plunks his head down and groans again. The tower had taken them almost a _whole bell_ to get right-!

Zhikyo storms into the kitchen and starts pulling things from the pantry. Chofso trails in behind her, followed by Thalbi, who immediately goes upstairs to her room. 

“I don’t understand why you can’t just stay in the village. A’veesteh is a scholar! You could learn from her!” Chofso says, gesturing wildly. Her braids fly around her as she speaks. A’chago looks back at the scattered cards and reluctantly begins gathering them up. 

Zhikyo is now banging pots and pans as she starts to get dinner ready. Mom and Dad are out doing important business so usually either Zhikyo or Sosne cook, especially since Jetnu is gone. Sosne is super pregnant right now though so she mostly stays at her own home with her husband. Mesca is really excited about the baby. A’chago doesn’t really care but it’ll be nice to not be the youngest kit in the town anymore. He’ll teach Sosne’s baby how to make _really_ good card towers. 

“Zhikyo, _talk to me_ ,” Chofso demands. She’s seventeen and Zhikyo is nineteen which means they’re both _old_ and care about things like college and getting jobs and starting families. Sosne is the oldest, though, she’s twenty-eight. That’s _twenty whole years_ older than him and Mesca. 

“There’s nothing to talk about, Chofso!”

“You could learn from mom, she still lives here. Hell, even Milhu, or U’jukyhi, I bet they’ve got some wisdom they could impart-”

“It’s not about _wisdom_ , Chofso, it’s about _academia!_ Learning! Knowledge! The chance to truly master a subject of my choosing. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to even get _noticed_ by the Baldesions? Can you even comprehend what an honor this is? This could change my life, Chofso!” Zhikyo dumps rice into a saucepan furiously and washes it so hard that water splashes everywhere. She screams in aggravation. “Chago, get me a towel,” she snaps.

A’chago jumps to attention. Chofso did laundry last night so he grabs a towel off the clothesline and hands it to his big sister. She rips it out of his hands and scrubs at the spill. 

Chofso stands next to Zhikyo, fuming. “I don’t know why you have to be such a bitch about this. What the hell is even so great about Sharlyan? Why would you want to be one of those stuffy scholars?”

A’chago takes a seat back at the table and shuffles the cards halfheartedly. Zhikyo has always been the smart one. Mom always says she’s “going places”. A few weeks ago she got a scholarship to go to Sharlyan and study with the Students of Baldesion. Everyone was happy, except for Chofso.

He thinks it’s because they’re full sisters. Zhikyo and Chofso have the same mom, but they’re not twins like him and Mesca. All his other sisters have different moms. Zhikyo and Chofso’s mom, N’latu, still lives in the village. His mom, Milhu, is married to his dad right now. Everyone else’s mom is dead except for Jetnu’s, but Jetnu ran away when he was four so she doesn’t really come around anymore. All his friends tell him his family is super confusing, but it isn’t to A’chago. 

He thinks that being full sisters means that Chofso probably feels extra sad that Zhikyo is leaving. He’ll miss Zhikyo, but not like he’d miss Mesca. That’s what his mom says, anyway. 

“ _Stuffy scholars_ -Chofso, these are the best and brightest of our generation, and they want _me!_ I have the chance to actually be somebody, not just rot away in this stupid little village in the middle of nowhere that Dad moved us to because A’duli can’t keep his dick in his pants!” Zhikyo pulls out a cleaver and last night’s roast and spears it. 

“Zhikyo, stop. The twins are here.” Chofso glances at them with wide eyes. A’chago waves at her. 

A’duli is his grandpa, his dad’s dad. A’chago doesn’t know what Zhikyo means, but apparently the A tribe used to live in Eorzea but now they live in Meracydia and it has something to do with something grandpa did. Nobody was really happy about moving to Meracydia, but it’s been so long now that nobody really cares anymore either. A’chago and Mesca were born here so they don’t even know what Eorzea is like. A’chago turns around in the chair and puts both his hands on the back so he can peek over. There’s two pots on the stove, now, one for rice and one with what smells like broth. 

Zhikyo looks at them too, now, and her face pales. She turns back to her cooking. “I’m going to Sharlyan, and that’s final.” She drops some of the leftover roast into the broth pot. 

“I still don’t think that the school there is any better than what you can learn here,” Chofso says stubbornly. 

“I didn’t ask for your ultracrepidarian ‘insight’!” ‘

“I don’t even know what that means!”

“Exactly! You don’t know what it means, because learning something actually requires you to care about things other than getting high every fucking waking minute of every damn day!” 

Silence. Zhikyo and Chofso are facing each other, panting hard. Chofso looks really hurt. The only noise is the bubbling of the pot on the stove. 

Zhikyo speaks first. “Chofso, I’m sorry,” she starts, but Chofso puts a hand up.

“No, you’re right,” she says bitterly. “I only care about getting high. That’s me, waste of space, wasted potential, stupid Chofso!” 

“Chofso, you’re not stupid,” Zhikyo tries. The broth pot is boiling, but she doesn’t notice. A’chago watches it carefully. 

Chofso crosses her arms and turns away. “Just go to Sharlyan and forget all about me.” She stalks off. Zhikyo watches her go but doesn’t say anything. 

A’chago turns back around to exchange a look with Mesca. Mesca’s wide eyes look back at him. They’re no strangers to fighting, but usually it’s between them and Thalbi, not Chofso and Zhikyo. 

“Wanna go play outside?” he asks. She nods hurriedly. They leave before anything else can happen.


	12. Tooth and Nail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> playing fast and loose with ascian lore yall

Eleos was bristling with anger-no, _fury._ He knew the Convocation was ballsy, but this? Sacrificing half of their numbers to summon the “will of the star”? This was too much. He manages to keep his mouth shut during the meeting, motivated in no small amount by the sharp glances Hades sends him every few minutes, but it’s only a matter of time before he explodes. 

“Azem. Have you ought to say?” Lahabrea asks him pointedly. The man’s bestial inspired mask glints in the low light of the Capitol. 

Eleos makes eye contact with Hades. Almost imperceptibly, the other shakes his head. 

It’s the filament that unravels the creation, so to speak. Fury like volcanic fire, like Ifrita, like the millions of people he’s met on his journeys, rises in him like wine. 

“I do,” he says scathingly. “This is _bullshit._ ” His crude language elicits a few gasps from the more conservative members. He couldn’t care less. “This plan-if it can even be called that-would require half of us to _die._ Die! It may not even work!” 

The rest of the Convocation, cowards, all of them, would not even meet his eye. Only Lahabrea stares him down coolly. 

“This is our last resort, Azem,” he says in the same tone Hades would use to chastise Eleos as a child. “None of us wanted it to come to this, but the fate of the star rests in our hands. It’s our duty to protect it, through any means necessary.”

“Protect-how is this protecting anyone? You would kill half our brothers and sisters on the off chance that your creation _might_ stop the apocalypse? You would-” at this, he sweeps his arm to gesture to Elidibus, the youngest member beside himself, “-sacrifice Elidibus? Our brother? Our _friend?_ ” He turns to the youngest member. “Elidibus, surely you don’t want to die.” 

Elidibus looks at him blankly. “It’s my duty, Azem.” His voice is toneless. 

Eleos feels like he’s going mad. Could none of them see _reason?_ He looks helplessly to Hades, who looks away. 

“Curse you, all of you! This is madness! This is _despicable!_ ” 

“Eleos!” Hades’s sharp voice cuts him off. He uses his given name, no less, oh, Eleos is in trouble now. 

Hades’s stern frown softens into something pitying. “We have no choice. The Final Days will kill _all_ of us if we let it. It will leave this star a blighted wasteland. The only choice we have left to us is to decide how many we will let die.”

“But-”

“This isn’t something you can make manifest and destroy, Eleos,” Hades says softly. “You spent weeks on the battlefield. Nothing’s changed.”

Eleos lets out a despairing noise. “I just need more _time,_ please, I can fix this. We can stop the Final Days without resorting to genocide.” 

Mitron coughs loudly. “I hope your personal connection isn’t getting in the way of your responsibility to this star, Emet-Selch,” she says. Eleos can see the exact moment when Hades’s shoulders stiffen before falling into a parody of calm. “Now, Lahabrea?”

Eleos moves to stand, but a hand on his arm stops him. Elidibus gives him a silent, pleading look. Begrudgingly, he sits. 

It feels like he’s betraying everyone and everything he holds dear. He thinks of all the myriad little lives he’s met, all the people and experiences and memories, and he wants nothing more than to protect them by any means necessary. The amount of guilt he felt when he was out on the battlefield, fighting nightmares of his people’s creation, nightmares that tore through those fragile little beings like they were naught more than spiderwebs. It’s his duty as an Ancient-nay, as a living being-to protect those who cannot protect themselves. 

But he balks at the thought of sacrificing his friends and family to do so, either. They cannot protect themselves against the Final Days any better or worse than the dozens of other races on the star. And they would be the ones asked to make the ultimate sacrifice, either knowingly or unknowingly, whichever the Convocation deemed “kindest”. He thinks of all the Ancients out there right now, milling about their ordinary lives. The flood of refugees from other parts of the star. The ones that couldn’t make it, because they were killed before they even had the chance to run. 

Hythlodaeus and Hades both are having near constant migraines from the flood of souls returning to the Underworld. 

Eleos has never felt so helpless before. It burns in him, it makes him want to lash out and scream. He’s unused to it. He’s never faced a problem he couldn’t beat into submission or a situation he couldn’t fight his way out of. 

“It’s settled,” Lahabrea says, standing. “The plan will go ahead. There’s no telling how much time we have before the Final Days are on our doorstep, so I propose that we proceed with the summoning as soon as possible, perhaps in a matter of hours.” 

Ice spears through Eleos’s body. _Hours._ He has to do something. He has to do _something._

If his brothers and sisters of the Convocation will not listen to him, then he will have to work without them. 

He stands. Not even Elidibus’s frantic tugging at his robes could stop him, nor Hades’s wordless threat, nor the Final Days itself. Shaking, he points a finger at Lahabrea, then sweeps it to address the whole Convocation. 

“I will fight this,” he says, voice full of conviction but trembling nonetheless. He’s never stood apart from the others before, not like this, not like what he’s about to do. “I will fight this, tooth and nail, sword and staff, and whatever else I can get my _fucking_ hands on-I will fight this, and I will fight you, until the day my soul finally departs. This I _promise_ you.”

He fists his hands at his side to keep them from shaking. He doesn’t even know if he’s right, he just knows that what the Convocation plans to do is unconscionable. 

For a moment, no one speaks. Then the entire convocation erupts. 

“What does that mean-”

“Are you threatening us?”

“Azem, please-” Elidibus begs. 

“Eleos, sit _down,_ ” Hades commands. 

He remains standing. He can’t afford to back down, not when he’s already declared his intentions. 

Lahabrea speaks next. “If you are so intent on standing against us, then stand against us you will,” he spits. “Get out. We have no need for defectors in our ranks. You are an enemy to this star.” 

Something sharp and panic-tinged aches in his chest. Helpless, he looks to Hades. Surely he wouldn’t let Lahabrea excommunicate him?

Hades won’t even look at him. 

Eleos shoves his seat in with more force than necessary and storms out of the room. He marches down the golden halls viciously, trying not to burst into tears. The capitol staff leap out of his way when they see him. _Good,_ he thinks cruelly. _I’m an enemy to this star for wanting to save your sorry hides._

He stomps his way to the Bureau of the Architect. There’s no telling how much time he has left before he’s expected to leave and go-he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where to go. Hurriedly, he pushes on. 

Hythlodaeus will know what to do.


	13. Free Prompt 2 (Discord Made Me Do It)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was a mistake!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dedicate this to: crystalsexarch, palabun, jukain, Where's the morphine, ninnie_eats_chips, everyone who's read this far, everyone who's ever given me kudos, everyone who's ever read anything of mine even if it was the lame bnha fics, god, the devil, myself, my roomates, the naked mermaid art on my wall, and whoever edited phat ass exarch in the first place.

When A’chago woke, the bed was dipping considerably more than it had been when he went to sleep. Blearily, he rubbed his eyes and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. 

Just him and G’raha were in bed, as expected. Nothing _seemed_ out of place. Yawning, A’chago flopped back down onto the bed and pulled his lover closer to him.

The firm pressure of something against his waist was new. And concerning. Confused, A’chago lifts the blankets and his eyes bugged out of his head. 

Somehow overnight G’raha Tia had developed the _fattest_ ass he’d ever seen on any living creature outside of a brothel. A’chago blinked several times to make sure he was actually seeing what he thought he was. 

Curiosity eventually won out over confusion, and he carefully reached out to touch the bare expanse of skin by his side. It was firm, but with substantial give once he applied pressure. Definitely real. What the hell was going on?

He palmed the ass next to him again. Yep, _definitely_ real. And his thighs were affected, too...A’chago was suddenly _very_ awake. A wicked smile stretched his lips obscenely wide as he considered waking up his partner and engaging in a very long exploration of this new development. Wiggling down, he came face to face with a backside bigger than a goddamn amaro. Yes, this would work _just_ fine. 

G’raha yawned and rolled over in his sleep, suddenly crushing A’chago’s hand between the most glorious ass this side of the Rift and their mattress. A’chago yelped as all the bones in his hand compressed. He tried to yank his arm out, but the weight of that derriere was simply too great. 

“Raha, wake the fuck up,” he hissed, trying not to lose feeling in his hand entirely. This was quickly becoming an emergency. 

Instead of waking, though, G’raha merely shifted in his sleep and moved toward A’chago’s voice, rolling on him even more. A’chago tried not to cry out when that fine, thick, plush rump rolled onto his arm, too. 

Unbidden, he thought of what Alphinaud and Urianger had taught him about crush injuries. His poor _arm..._

“Raha, wake up! Get up!” He slapped his lover lightly on the head, then more insistently when he didn’t respond. His arm was entirely numb. He couldn’t feel it at all. A’chago sucked in a breath and tried to remain calm. 

G’raha shifted again and he’s pretty sure he _heard_ the bones in his hand grinding down to dust. 

Panicking, he shoved G’raha as hard as he could. All it succeeded in doing was rocking G’raha’s massive booty back and forth on his arm, causing an immeasurable amount of pain. 

_Oh gods. Oh gods, I can’t even teleport because we’re touching and he’s naked. What do I do?_ A’chago panicked. He tried yanking his arm out again, but only succeeded in pulling his shoulder sharply. 

The novelty was quickly wearing off. This wasn’t an interesting addition, this was a weapon of _mass destruction._ M-ASS destruction, if you will. His lover had been turned into an ass-assin. Despite his situation, A’chago started to crack up. Death by butt. Butt death. Oh, god, he’s dying. The blood is being cut off from his brain. 

A’chago fell onto his back and decided to accept his fate. G’raha murmured in his sleep and backed up more, and tears sprang to his eyes. It would be cute, except for the fact that his arm was getting crushed to death. To distract himself, he sang an ancient hymn of comfort that Jehantel taught him. According to his mentor, it would rouse the spirits of any army and keep them level-headed for the battle to come. Twelve knew he needed to keep calm right now. 

“If I backeth t up, is't bacon-fed enow? At which hour i throweth t backeth, is't festinate enow? If 't be true i speedeth t up, can thee handleth yond? Thee ain’t eft f'r this w'rk, anon gaze me throweth t, throweth t backeth.”

The stupid song did nothing to calm his nerves. 

Oh gods, how would he explain this injury to the Scions? What if he lost his arm?

The panic forced him to act again, and he kicked at G’raha’s thick thighs. His lover slept on, gods-damn his ability to sleep through a calamity!

Resigned to his fate, A’chago let his face rest against G’raha’s lower back. His entire arm up to the shoulder was sandwiched between his ass and the bed, and wasn’t even poking out the other side. If he was going to die like this, may as well go out having fun. 

He was lucky he was ambidextrous. Only having one hand worked out perfectly fine for what he wanted to do. 

“Stop, I beg of you, _stop._ ”

“And that, my dear, is why I am more than satisfied with your ass that’s, as you so eloquently put it, ‘flatter than a knife blade and bony enough to act like one too’,” A’chago finished proudly. “It would be a glorious way to go, but I thank the twelve every day that I won’t return to the Lifestream via ass attack.”

G’raha Tia was in bed next to him, covering his red face with his hands. “I regret ever mentioning this,” he mumbled. His ears were pressed so flat against his head that they almost completely disappeared in his thick red hair.

“Oh, come off it, darling, I love you just the way you are,” A’chago laughed, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. G’raha pushed his face away with one hand. 

“Don’t kiss me after telling me about how you got crushed to death by my fat ass, then decided to get off to it anyway!”

A’chago grinned wickedly. “What can I say? I love you no matter what.”

G’raha looked at him with a mix of utter loathing and warm fondness. “You could’ve just led with that, instead of...this.”

A’chago leaned over and rolled atop of him. “Would you have believed me if I simply told you that?” he asked pointedly. 

G’raha looked away with a pout. 

Leaning back, A’chago tapped his chin with his finger. “You know, you didn’t even let me get to the part where you couldn’t fit in your clothes and we had to ask Urianger to spell them bigger,” he said sadly. 

“I am going to _kill you,_ ” G’raha hissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you know me irl and stumble upon this NEVER mention it. it doesnt exist


	14. Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEARLY EVERY WARNING TAG YOU CAN FIND ABOVE APPLIES TO THIS CHAPTER. TREAD CAREFULLY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: self harm, reference/allusions to child abuse, unhealthy relationships with sex and self, unhealthy coping mechanisms, imagined noncon, disturbing mental monologue/imagery.  
> do not take the tags lightly. this is much darker and more explicit than what i've written in previous chapters.  
> EXPLICIT self harm from "All of a sudden, he feels nothing but rage..." until the end.

_Vanity, thy name is A’chago,_ he thinks bitterly, and not for the first time. Standing stark naked in the privacy of his bedroom in front of the mirror, he traces his hands up and down his foreign too-adult body. 

It seems like only yesterday he was twelve or so years old, gangly and awkward and still soft round the middle. Now, at seventeen, he’s nearly a man-and looks it, too. 

He’s never really considered himself something desirable. But looking at this nameless reflection, all smooth lines and sharp contours, he can sort of see what other people do. It’s still bizarre. 

His family doesn’t talk about sex. Not after...just, after. None of his sisters do. It had been one of Mesca’s friends, A’xudi, who’d first told him he was sexy. She’s a pretty girl, big brown eyes and tanned skin and orange hair pulled into pigtails on the sides of her head, spilling fiery ringlets down her slim shoulders. She’d been drunk, they all were, when she pulled him down to her four-foot-nine height and told him she’d dreamed of running her tongue across his abs. She’d been horribly embarrassed the next morning and made him promise not to tell anyone. 

Her confession had startled him then, and it startles him now. But since she mentioned it, he’s been finding himself in front of the mirror more and more frequently, and he enjoys what he sees. 

What an odd feeling, to enjoy one’s own appearance. He never thought it would happen. He’s spent so long hiding from his body, convincing himself it was built for more than just taking and giving pleasure. 

He is rapidly approaching the age where he is going to be _expected_ to take and give pleasure. The thought makes him nauseous. 

But it also excites him. The contradictions war on the battlefield of his skin, flipping his stomach while simultaneously sending shivers down his spine. 

He swore off sex a long time ago. Swore never to let anyone’s eyes on him again. Hells, it took days of working himself up just to look at his naked body. He still gets uncomfortable when he’s shirtless among his friends. Now, though, he admires himself freely, gets lost in the lines of his stomach, the planes of his chest, the curves of his legs and the thick, mature member between them. 

_Look at you,_ some traitorous, familiar part of him says. _You were made for this. Everyone knows it._

He sees what they see. His skin is unmarred by scarring or other marks, he managed to escape his teenagers years thus far without acne. He was never able to grow anything more than a pathetic smattering of facial hair, which left his chest smooth and hairless. His muscles are lean, his waist is small, his hands are soft and uncalloused. He tilts his head back to admire the long line of his throat. He tries to imagine it covered in dark marks, and suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, he feels pleasure spark at the idea. 

Once he does, the floodgates open. He imagines a faceless stranger, their hands on his hips, a sharp smirk. He traces the path he imagines they would take up and down his body, exploring every inch of him. They would admire him, he decides, and go slowly. Wait for his cue. Let him lead. 

_But what if they didn’t?_ that same horrible part of him whispers. _What if they decided you were too tempting, and they had to just take you?_

The stranger in his head grabs his wrists roughly, turns him around, forces him down. They don’t listen when he tells them to stop. They don’t let go when he fights to be freed. They use him as they please. He finishes anyway. 

Misery’s knife slashes through his being, shattering the daydream and dragging him roughly back to reality. He chokes back a sob, covers his mouth with one hand and covers himself with the other. He can’t look in the mirror. He can’t stand to exist in his own skin. He stumbles back, away from it, until his knees knock into the soft mattress of his bed and he tumbles down. 

He needs to be clothed. Nobody can look at him. Nobody is _allowed_ to look at him. A’chago buries himself under the blankets and tries to breathe. 

There’s a reason that he tries to ignore his body so much. This is the reason. _You’re sick. You’re fucked up,_ he tells himself. _You must have wanted it. You must have. Why else would you imagine that..?_

All of a sudden, he feels nothing but rage. He hates having a body. He hates being perceived. He hates not owning himself, being a perpetual renter, a ghost haunting a borrowed space, a squatter in his own skin. He wants to own it. He wants to mark this wretched existence as his own. The turmoil rises in him like hot summer air, pressurizing, exploding. He’s a hurricane of feelings and none of them good. 

It’s instinct more than rational thought that guides him to the bathroom, guides his hands to Mesca’s grooming kit, guides his fingers as they deftly take apart her razor. He’s seen Thalbi do this more times than he can count, there must be a reason she’s never been able to quit. He intends to find out. 

The first line is ecstasy. He feels absolutely nothing, which is such a far cry from the utter chaos he felt before that he understands with startling clarity why Thalbi has marks lining her arms and legs. The movement is rhythmic, methodical, and he has another two dozen scored across his arm before he even thinks about it. 

There’s something fascinating about the way his blood wells up and beads, before finally accumulating too much and dripping away. It’s almost pretty. He watches in silence as his arm colors. 

Then the novelty wears off and he’s in the worst pain he’s ever been in. He has to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. There’s a thousand little needles digging into his skin, all of his nerves lighting on fire as his body frantically alerts him to the injury he caused himself. He reflexively tenses against the pain, then hisses out a curse when it makes his arm hurt _more._ Quickly, he shoves his arm under the faucet and washes away the worst of it until he stops bleeding as much. 

He wets some toilet paper and presses it firmly against his arm, biting his cheek to distract himself from how badly it hurts. Gingerly, he dabs at the cuts until they stop bleeding completely. He analyzes the damage. 

Dozens of puffy red lines marr his previously flawless skin. Something in him feels victorious. He is no longer perfect. He is no longer desirable. He found a way to keep everyone’s hands off. More importantly, he found something that makes him feel _better._

He slips the blade into his pocket. He’ll say he broke Mesca’s razor, buy her a new one. This one is his now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes u just gotta (dumps bad feelings onto fav character) y'know?


	15. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hades becomes a teen father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im actually so happy with how this turned out. im thriving on ascian family headcanons yall nobody can stop me!!
> 
> 4 this story i imagine hades is probably like, 17 or 18, and then hyth is like some super genius 12yo in his class who just hangs out with him (much to hades's dismay), and eleos is like. probably 10 or smth idk but a little younger than hyth. dad hades. also hades has a gf whom he marries, her name is persephone (ha) and she's an angel and im love her. i just decided this just now. but its law. anyways

Hades was not quite three millennia old when he stumbled upon the child for the first time. He was vacationing in the islands, celebrating a particularly well-received creation that had been remarkably useful for the community, when he decided to stop by the pier and enjoy the view. The ocean breeze was slightly sticky against his skin, tinged with salt. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Nothing but him, the ocean, and the night sky above. He lifted his drink to the sky in a toast to his mentors and drank heartily. 

Wood creaked behind him. Hades didn’t turn around immediately, fully expecting it to be Hythlodaeus, one of the youngest students in their class and arguably the brightest, despite being almost half the age of their peers. For some reason, Hythlodaeus had attached himself to Hades like a particularly stubborn limpet, and Hades had begrudgingly learned to tolerate him. 

“If you’ve come to annoy me, you’re not doing a very good job,” Hades said without turning around. Nothing could dampen his good spirits, not even a mischievous little fiend. 

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer. Hythlodaeus was no fool, he would not so soon give up his cover. Hades sighed and turned around to confront him, but then he was sucker-punched in the gut. 

He doubled over, gasping for breath. The drink in his hand was swiftly removed by his assailant, and when he could see without tiny stars marring his vision he was greeted with the visage of a child. 

The child, who was undoubtedly an Ancient, must have been a few thousand years younger than Hythlodaeus. It was a boy, dressed in rags, chugging Hades’ wine like his life depended on it. 

“Excuse me!” Hades objected, bracing a hand against the railing of the pier. 

The boy paused in his drinking long enough to croak, “You’re excused.”

In the name of the Underworld-Hades felt fury unlike no other erupt in his belly alongside the ache of the punch. “You,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height and doing his best to look menacing, “Are a _disgusting_ little urchin! Give me back my wine!” 

The boy merely raised his eyebrows. “No,” he said simply. Then he dashed away, faster than a blink of light. 

Hades stood there for a while longer. Oh, Hythlodaeus was going to love this-him, being mugged by a child. How _utterly_ humiliating.

* * *

He avoided the Islands for several years after that. He was busy, soon to be graduated, and he would be expected to spend all of his time pouring effort into bettering his community. He had no time to consider street urchins or their conniving ways. 

His professors asked him to conduct an experiment on that same island, to discover their most pressing problem and devise a way to rectify it. Hades could not very well _defy_ them, but he did insist on bringing along Hythlodaeus-perhaps, if faced with someone closer to his own age, the child would leave him alone. 

Ah, but what did this anticipation say about himself? It was a large island, the chances of running into that self same delinquent infinitesimally small. Hades held onto this fact firmly as he packed his bags, using it to ward off the worst of his worries. 

Upon returning to the island, they were escorted to a fine establishment that served as both housing and creation facility for traveling students: it was here that he was expected to devote most, if not all of his time. Hythlodaeus had balked at the idea of being stuck inside with Hades while he did his research, but Hades won him over by promising to allow him to help. 

All in all, a swell deal. The first few days went by without incident. There was a minor housing problem, coupled with the subsequent homeless population’s food insecurity and general disease-riddenness. Hades couldn’t help but turn up his nose slightly-he was an _Amaurotine,_ he held himself to a certain standard, and these island villagers had not even the decency to don robes and masks. All of them were bare faced and uniquely clothed, seemingly with whatever was available. He supposed that was adequate: there wasn’t much to be jealous of when all your compatriots were dressed in rags. 

On the fifth day, however, his luck ran out. 

He and Hythlodaeus had managed to secure an hour or so of leisure to explore the island, albeit under the pretense of conducting research. In reality, they just needed a break. Hythlodaeus had all but jumped at the opportunity, dragging Hades along into the sunshine. 

The island really was quite pretty. The native flora and fauna, all brightly colored and vibrant, painted a picturesque scene. Hades strolled along the streets lazily, keeping an eye on Hythlodaeus and admiring the view. From the sidewalk where they walked, he could look to his left and see a sloping cliff that met white sands and then, beyond that, the azure ocean. On his right, saturated shopfronts and peeling painted buildings gave the atmosphere a cozy, rustic vibe. 

Still couldn’t hold a candle to Amaurot. Then again, nothing could. 

As they walked, Hythlodaeus excitedly chattering about whatever inane thing crossed his mind, Hades became aware that they were being watched. Stalked, more like. The presence followed them wherever they went, no matter how many back alleys and sharp turns Hades directed them down. 

Finally, he decided he’d had enough. He stopped in the middle of the alleyway, then turned around. He placed on hand on Hythlodaeus’s shoulder to keep him close. 

There’s nobody in the alleyway besides the two of them-that he can see. “Oh, do come out and join us,” Hades says tiredly. “We won’t bite...probably.”

After a few moments of silence that stretched just long enough to make him think perhaps he was wrong, something shifted in his peripheral. 

A dirty young boy stepped into view. It was the street rat from his last visit, the one who assaulted him. Hades sneered.

“It appears that we’ve caught somebody’s eye,” he said half to the boy and half to Hythlodaeus. 

“Hello,” Hythlodaeus said, squirming out from Hades’s grip and offering a hand to the boy. “My name’s Hythlodaeus. What’s yours?”

The boy fidgeted uncomfortably, eyes darting between Hythlodaeus’s hand and the shocked expression on Hades’s face. It was hard to believe that this nervous child was the one who so brazenly attacked him then stole his wine. 

Then, the boy’s hand darted out and he snatched the coin purse right off Hythlodaeus’s waist before sprinting out of the alley as fast as he could.

“Why, you-!” Hades shouted, surging forward to chase after him. Twice now that little shit had gotten the comeuppance on him!

Hythlodaeus stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Leave him,” he said. “He probably needs it more than we do.” 

Hades grumbled, but the boy was already long gone and Hythlodaeus, damn his maturity, was right. They left the alley and returned to the research building. 

Later that evening, tucked into his silk sheets and atop a plush mattress, Hades was unable to stop thinking about that boy. His dirty face. His filthy clothes. His bare feet, he’d had sandals the last time, Hades remembered, what happened to his shoes? His feet had been bare and scabbed over today. Where were his parents? Was he not someone’s wayward son? Did he not have anyone looking for him? The thought tugged uncomfortably at his stomach. There was no such thing as homeless in Amaurot. Certainly no small, dirty children all alone in the world. 

Or, if there was, then it was not so glaring, he amended. 

What was he doing? He shouldn’t pity the brat. Child or no, he was still an uncouth, unrefined little thief. There was no excuse for _stealing._

Hades rolled over and went to sleep. He didn’t care about the child at _all._

* * *

It is the last day of their research trip when Hades sees the boy again. He and Hythlodaeus have just finished packing their bags and are just waiting for the airship to take them back to Amaurot. The other researchers are babbling mindlessly amongst themselves, sharing details of their reports and anecdotes about their activities and many things which should _not_ be repeated in an academic setting. Hades had half a mind to clap his hands over Hythlodaeus’s ears, and he would’ve, were he not so sure that his young friend had already heard far worse in his time at the studium. Hades adjusted his shoulder bag and stared off into middle distance, trying to appear aloof and disinterested. 

Hythlodaeus tugged at his robes. “Hades,” he said, a note of urgency in his voice. 

Hades ignored him. Whatever it was, it could wait until they were back in Amaurot and away from their prattling peers. 

“Hades,” Hythlodaeus tried again, more insistently. Finally, Hades acknowledged him, and Hythlodaeus pointed to a stack of crates leaning against the corner of a run-down store advertising bananas. Peeking out from behind the crates was none other than the boy. He looked...considerably worse for wear. Even skinnier, if that was possible. And his dirty face was covered in a massive purple bruise. Hades looked away stiffly. It was not his job to involve himself in the petty affairs of villagers he will never meet again. He pushed down the brief outrage he feels at the thought of someone _laying hands_ on so defenseless a creature. Soon the airship will arrive, and he will never have to think about dirty children in ragged clothes again. 

“We should do something,” Hythlodaeus murmured. His eyes never left the boy, who continued to stare at them. “I mean, our whole project was to help the homeless. I can’t think of a more perfect specimen than him.”

“Careful now,” Hades chided. “You mustn’t consider yourself a savior. Don’t be arrogant.”

Hythlodaeus smiled at him. “Says the most arrogant Ancient this side of the star,” he retorted. 

The airship appeared in the sky. Freedom was so close. Hades looked back at the boy. 

The boy was staring at the airship in awe. It was likely he’d never seen one before-or if he had, then only to deliver researchers and transport them back home. It was such an innocent expression. His eyes were full of wonder and potential. 

Briefly, Hades wondered if the boy had ever Created anything. He didn’t look like he had the training, and if he could Create, then surely he would just Create something to fix his situation.

The thought that a child his age had never even Created anything before was what finally convinced him. “Boy,” he said sharply, addressing him. The boy jerked back and set his wide eyes on Hades. Hades spoke before he really had time to think about what he was going to say. “You, there. Yes, you. Come here.”

There was no reason for the boy to listen to him. He could have just as easily run the other direction. He was quite good at disappearing. But, against all odds, the boy approached. He walked in a stilted manner, like he wasn’t sure why he was approaching, but he came nonetheless. 

Hades softened. This was a child. “Would you like to come with us?” he asked, gesturing to himself and Hythlodaeus. “We’re going to Amaurot.”

The boy hesitated, looking at Hythlodaeus, then Hades, then back again, clearly wavering. 

Hythlodaeus brightened instantly. “We’ll have loads of fun if you do,” he promised. “Hades has a really big house, he got it from his parents. His parents are super nice, too. And Hades has a girlfriend who’s very funny and she Creates little glass animals for me all the time, and I’m sure she’ll make you some too, if you want. Plus there’s food and your own bed and we can get you some real clothes. And I can be your friend, so you’ll never be lonely. Hades can also be your friend, but he’s a real grump sometimes so you’ll probably stick with me. We have classes though, so you can’t come with us to those, but Hades’s girlfriend has a little sister who stays at the house too, and she’s ok.”

“Hythlodaeus, you’ll scare him,” Hades said. He hadn’t even thought about Persephone or what she’d say to their newest possible addition, but knowing her and her bleeding heart, she’d take to the boy instantly. She’s rubbing off on him, making him soft. 

The boy bit his lip. After a few more moments of hesitation, he nodded. 

Hythlodaeus whooped loudly and threw his arms around the boy. Hades rolled his eyes, but even he was a little touched by the display. 

As the airship landed, he turned to the boy again. “What’s your name? Unless you want me to keep calling you ‘boy’.”

The boy looked up at him from Hythlodaeus’s embrace. “Eleos,” he answered. 

The airship started accepting passengers. Students clamored around the ramp, shuffling on deck. 

Hades knelt down to Eleos’s level and grinned. “Well, Eleos,” he said, “Welcome aboard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my biggest weakness is found family!!!!


	16. Lucubration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> misread this prompt like 2x before finally looking up the definition

A’chago wakes slowly, to the sounds of soft voices and boiling water. He blinks open his eyes to take in the scene before him. 

He is curled up in G’raha’s bed in Dawn’s Respite, where he has insisted on spending his nights ever since waking the man from his tower-induced slumber. Across the room, Alphinaud and Alisaie play cards on Alphinaud’s bed, heads bowed low, two dandelion tufts of white side by side. Y’shtola stretches languidly as she rises from her bed, her back arching. Thancred is stationed in front of the stove, idly flipping a pan of something that smells absolutely divine, and a thermocoil boilmaster is happily chugging along next to him. Urianger butters toast a few ilms away. 

The doors to Dawn’s Respite swing open, and Krile and Tataru enter. They’re holding hands and giggling. Tataru has a basket full of bright red berries, Krile has a matching one filled with blue. A’chago smiles and burrows deeper into the blankets. If he could wake up to this every morning, his friends and family surrounding him, making breakfast, he’d be happy. 

He reaches his hand out to pull G’raha closer to him. His hand lands on empty sheets, and despite feeling blindly, it’s obvious that he’s alone. He sits upright and rubs the sleep away from his eyes. 

“Good morning, A’chago,” Y’shtola greets him, bringing her arms down to her sides. She grins cheekily. “Be at ease. Our newest addition is in the Solar, hale and whole.”

The uncanny way she’s always been able to read him, even blind, used to make him anxious. Now, it’s just pleasant to be known. He thanks her, then rises. 

He leaves without a word to the other Scions, but none of them so much as bat an eye in his direction. This, too, is something that he relishes in: the freedom to blend into the background, a hallmark of true equality amongst peers. A’chago has only wanted this for his entire life. Now that he has it, he never intends to let it go. 

Out in the lobby, Riol and Ephemie are chatting at the bar. Clemence is flushed pink and chasing Aenor, who is scantily clad and waving something that looks suspiciously like panties above her head. Hoary and Ocher witness it all with big, guffawing laughter, although to his credit Ocher does attempt to halt Aenor in her tracks. Coultenet shakes his head. Isildaure and Alianne are still in Doma, last A’chago heard was that Homei and Hozan were giving them a full adventurer’s tour of Othard. 

Although in the back of his mind he’s known it to be true, he’s suddenly struck by the knowledge that he has a family. More than that, he _belongs_ here, amongst them. The rush of warmth that floods his chest is nearly debilitating. He grins despite himself. 

But his family is not complete without the man who’s secluded himself away in the Solar, so A’chago presses on. 

The doors to the Solar open with some difficulty, lack of use making them cling more stubbornly to their natural position than usual. He manages, nonetheless, and is greeted with the visage of Unukalhai, maskless, and G’raha sitting back to back, eyes closed, breathing slow. He must have intruded upon something. Perhaps he should leave?

His presence breaks G’raha out of his trance. The other man blinks his eyes open slowly, then seems to fully come back. He smiles when he sees A’chago. 

“Sorry,” A’chago says bashfully. “I should’ve knocked.”

“It’s fine,” Unukalhai answers, sliding his mask back on. A’chago hadn’t even noticed him waking up. “We were nearly finished, anyroad.”

G’raha rolls his shoulders and slumps forward, sighing in relief as he falls out of his straight-backed posture. “The Viis believed that the hours between the sun’s second and third degrees were best devoted to a period of lucubration. They believed it was the most opportune time to feel the sun’s aether flowing through every living thing, and to restabilize one’s own with the natural rhythm of the world. I try to keep up with the habit if at all possible, and I have found a friend who would accompany me, as well.”

Unukalhai stiffens and turns away. “It’s just meditation,” he grumbles. “My master, in the early days, impressed upon me the importance of self-reflection. Nothing about suns or what have you.”

A’chago winces. He still hasn’t told Unukalhai about Elidibus’s death. 

G’raha, to his credit, doesn’t look the slightest bit perturbed. “Nevertheless, thank you for joining me, Unukalhai. Shall I see you tomorrow?”

After a moment’s hesitation, the boy nods. G’raha grins at him, then stands and grabs hold of A'chago's hands. 

“Perfect! Well, then, my love, I’m all yours,” G’raha says to A'chago happily, beaming at him. “What’s on the agenda?”

Good _gods,_ A’chago’s in love with this man. But something, probably the guilt of having forgotten Unukalhai altogether, prevents him from melting against his lover and leading them to breakfast. Instead, he turns to Unukalhai. 

“Breakfast is nearly ready,” he tells the boy. “Would you like to join us?”

Unukalhai’s expression is indiscernible beneath his mask, but his body language is horribly open and hopeful. “I couldn’t possibly intrude-”

“Nonsense,” G’raha says firmly. “It would be no intrusion at all.”

Unukalhai wavers, waffling between the proffered hand and the silence of the Solar. Finally, he nods. “Alright. If you insist.” He still hesitates, nervous to take that first step away from Minfilia’s desk.

A’chago decides he wants nothing more than to share his abundance of family with this boy. He and G’raha flank him on either side as they exit the Solar, and lead Unukalhai into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on such a found family binge right now!!! i originally didnt even intend to write about Unukalhai but this prompt kind of ran away from me, and now I'm hooked on the idea of G'raha and Unukalhai meditating together and being friends :'D
> 
> also the parallel between Eleos being found and given a family turning into A'chago finding Unukalhai and bringing him into his family....excuse me while i go sob


	17. Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soft moment within the Crystal Tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im such a slut for romance

Sunlight does not typically stream through the Crystal Tower, but G’raha had chosen the room with the thinnest walls of crystal to be his personal quarters. A’chago watched with casual interest as they faded from a deep cerulean to a rich cyan. The gold sparkled where refracted light hit it. 

He was swathed in blankets, shirtless, flat on his back, his tail aching uncomfortably. It was not how he would choose to sleep-but there was an extremely powerful motivation to keep himself as still as possible. That being, the man curled up on his chest. 

G’raha Tia, the Crystal Exarch, was slumbering peacefully. The tops of his ears brushed A’chago’s face, twitching when he breathed on them. His face was pressed into A’chago’s chest, right under his chin. His breaths were slow and even. He looked so serene. His face was smooth, expressionless, aside from the occasional twitches he made as he dreamt. 

It had taken A’chago _ages_ to convince G’raha to rest a little, and a not-insubstantial amount of threats. Many of which included tattling to Lyna. Eventually, though, G’raha had relented, and allowed A’chago to lead him into their quarters for a full night’s sleep. 

It was well past when G’raha would typically rise for the day and leave A’chago to snooze until the later hours of the afternoon, but he was still asleep. It was honestly a dream come true. Call him a sap, but A’chago was delighted to be able to spend a lazy morning with the love of his life. He rubbed G’raha’s back softly. 

Amazingly, the other didn’t even stir. Taking his chances, A’chago pressed a soft kiss to his ears. The only response he got was a tiny little _mrrp._

Gods above, he thought. I would follow him anywhere. Anything he asked of me, I would give. 

G’raha had crossed time and space for him. He’d braved the eighth umbral calamity and the years after, then traveled the rift alone and landed on the First, all to save him. To save the _world._ There’s never been a greater hero, one who had more burdens on his shoulders and handled them as gracefully, one who’d been in it for the long haul, who’d pulled off a monumental plan so successfully even when it all seemed to go to shit. 

He’s amazing. Absolutely, breathtakingly amazing. And he didn’t even _know_ it, had felt compelled to offer his life for the Scions, like it had meant nothing, like _he_ meant nothing. It broke A’chago’s heart. G’raha had told him countless times that all he wanted was to be a hero worthy of the name, and now that he was, he couldn’t _see_ it. 

A’chago wrapped his arms around G’raha tighter and kissed his ears. “I love you,” he said quietly. “You are, by far and away, the most incredible man I’ve ever met.”

Silence answered him, but it only emboldened him to keep going.

“You saved the world, Raha. You saved me. You’re my hero.”

The crystal tower glittered around them. Here, in the heart of his lover’s tower, surrounded by him, he was overcome with the need to confirm that G’raha knows just how much he loves him. 

“I’m yours,” he whispered. “I know Alisaie said that your life belonged to me, but she was only half right: my life belongs to _you._ Anything you want, I’ll give. Anything you need, I’ll provide. I want to belong to you.” 

Gods, these sound like wedding vows when he says them out loud. The thought won’t leave his head, though, and he feels tears prick his eyes. 

He had sworn never to get engaged again after Haurchefant. His life was incompatible with domesticity, with romance, with coming-homes and warm fires. He had convinced himself of that. He would never be able to settle down with someone normal. He wasn’t meant for it. 

But G’raha...G’raha was the same as him. G’raha had lived the same hard life of heroism, sacrificed just about everything and everyone he cared for, martyred himself for the sake of the greater good, made himself a servant of the people just as A’chago had. G’raha had also protected him when he’d stumbled, picked him back up when no one else could. No one else had ever been able to step on the battlefield with him and carry him like that. He’d never been able to trust someone else to hold their own on the battlefield with him like that-but G’raha had done more than hold his own. G’raha had been completely in sync with him, each and every time they fought together. They were an excellent team. 

And A’chago _wanted_ that, wanted it forever. Wanted to wake up like this forever, tail gone numb and a firm weight on his chest. Wanted to adventure with him. Wanted to take to the eternal winds with him. 

I’m going to marry this man, he realized. One day. Maybe not right now. But I want to. 

The doors to their room slammed open. A’chago jumped, angling himself so he was between the doors and G’raha, and G’raha slept on. Twelve, he could probably sleep through a calamity if he so desired to. 

Standing in the doorway, hands out in front of her but looking appropriately sheepish, stood Alisaie Leveilleur. “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

A’chago shot her a dirty look, still protecting G’raha. “You slammed the doors open,” he stage-whispered. “What the hell did you mean to do?”

Instead of leaving, or even quieting down, Alisiae smiled brightly and strode over to the bed, plopping down. “No one has seen either of you in hours,” she explained. “I tried to tell them that you were most likely _indisposed,_ but Urianger somehow got it in his head that one or both of you might be dead.”

The thought of Urianger, so calm and stoic, panicking like a worried parent was too unbelievable. “You just wanted to catch us in the act,” A’chago accused her. “If you wanted to make it believable you should’ve said Alphinaud. Or even Thancred.”

To her credit, Alisaie didn’t deny it. “To be fair, everyone _was_ worried. I just...volunteered to go check on our lovely hero and our generous host.” 

“Well, you’ve checked. Now get out.”

“My, someone’s not gotten their beauty rest,” Alisaie giggled. “You’re like a brooding hen with her chick, look at those storm clouds! I can understand why the Warrior of Darkness is so feared. Imagine if his enemies saw him now, tangling in the sheets with his paramour~”

“Alisaie, I swear to the Twelve, if you don’t get out-!” It was an empty threat, but just barely. G’raha was still sleeping, and A’chago would like to keep it that way. He put his best glower on. 

“Fine! Fine, I’m going,” she grumbled. “I can’t stand being around you two anyway.” As she walked away, she turned around to look at them once more. Grinning deviously, she snapped a picture on her tomestone before dashing out the door. 

She didn’t even close the doors. A’chago let his head fall back against the pillows and groaned. After a lengthy pause, he looked back down at his lover and smoothed his ears back. Suddenly, G’raha smiled. And then he chuckled. And then, he laughed, lifting himself off of A’chago’s chest and wiping tears from his eyes. His shoulders shook. 

“What-did you hear that?” A’chago asked. 

“A brooding hen,” G’raha chuckled, “Now isn’t that a new one.” He settled himself down on his side with his arm crooked and supporting his head. 

A’chago rolled on his side to face him and winced when his tail suddenly regained feeling. “How long have you been awake and taking advantage of my cuddles, Mr. _Liar_?”

G’raha’s expression sobered. “Long enough,” he said, then paused. “Do you really think I’m your hero?”

The way he asked that was so vulnerable, so innocent-A’chago reached out and traced his cheek, fingers running over crystal. G’raha closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “Yes,” A’chago said sincerely. “I do. You are.”

When G’raha opened his eyes again, they were wet. “And the rest?” he asked. “Did you mean that, too?”

Instead of answering, A’chago took G’raha’s hand and pressed it against his bare chest. He briefly regretted making G’raha touch his scars, but G’raha had told him he didn’t care, so A’chago did his best to not care either. He let G’raha’s hand rest there, right over his heart, so he could feel his heartbeat. The moments stretched on, glass-like and quiet, the only sound the hush of their breathing. A'chago's heart beat steadily underneath G'raha's palm. G’raha looked at him, confused. A’chago looked back and opened his mouth. 

“This is yours,” he told G’raha. 

G’raha’s eyes overflowed with tears. “Why-you- _I’m_ supposed to be the romantic one,” he said, voice thick. He leaned in to kiss A’chago. A’chago met him halfway. 

He doesn’t make any prayers to the gods because he knows better than to tempt fate. Instead, A’chago vows to protect this moment, and the future where he gets to have as many of these moments as he can, with everything he has.


	18. Panglossian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A'chago loses faith in the Twelve and in Hydaelyn slowly, but this is the first time the fractures appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this in 30 minutes so its much shorter but i had to beat those deadlines  
> the mother crystal gives her hardest battles to her sexiest soldiers

A’chago stared into the sunset without really noticing it. The setting sun, dirt road, and quiet thump of chocobo feet kicking up dust would’ve been peaceful-even enjoyable-had it not been accompanied by the awful dread that settled over the occupants. It hung in the air like a fog, keeping with them even as they traveled further away from Ul'dah. Nobody spoke. Pippin kept watch behind them and Bremondt kept his eyes on the horizon, while Alphinaud stared off into middle distance and A’chago tried to keep his breathing steady. His wrists ached where Ilberd had bound them. 

_Ilberd._ Somehow, shockingly, A’chago had managed to keep his wits about him throughout that entire terrible encounter, but now that the adrenaline was wearing off he could feel his hands start to shake. 

He hadn’t seen Ilberd since-since that night, at Camp Dragonhead, when he’d come looking and caught him outside. Haurchefant hadn’t been there to protect him. Ilberd had shoved him against the camp’s wall, accused him of hiding from his duty, and threatened to take him back by force if he wouldn’t come willingly. Almost had, too, and probably would’ve if Haurchefant hadn’t wandered around at that very instant and thrown Ilberd out. 

It still made him sick to think about. A’chago forced himself to think about the Banquet instead.

He didn’t really have time to process it: one moment he was speaking to the Sultana, then she was on the ground, then Teledji was there, then _Ilberd_ was there, and then his wrists were bound and he was being dragged into the banquet hall and thrown to the ground. Afterwards it was a blur. He vaguely recalled seeing Raubahn’s arm fly off-but no, that couldn’t have happened, could it? Then he and the Scions fled, and only he got out. 

Only he got out. They’re still in the tunnels. 

You fucking idiot, he thought to himself. How did you not know that it was poison? It was all a set up! You killed everyone!

No, he can’t-he can’t think like that. Everyone’s fine. Everything’s going to be okay. The carriage flew over a nasty bump and he was rattled out of his seat. It shook him out of his head. He cast a quick glance to Alphinaud, and his heart sank when he realized that his friend was still in shock. 

“Hey,” he said, voice cracking a little. “It’ll be alright. We can fix this.”

Alphinaud shook his head. “It’s all my fault,” he whispered. “If I hadn’t been so arrogant-if I’d just waited instead of charging ahead…” he trailed off into silence. Then, he slammed his fist against the seat. “Our friends-the sultana-our standing with the Eorzean Alliance-all gone! All because of my brash and foolish actions!” He slammed his fist once more, causing the wood to splinter. 

“Alphinaud, stop,” A’chago pleaded. He locked eyes with Pipin, who was staring at the two of them with concern. “We can tell them it was all a misunderstanding. Thancred, Urianger, Yda, Papalymo, Y’shtola, Minfilia-they’re smart. They’ll make it out of the tunnels and they’ll figure out a way to make this go away.”

“Would you stop placing your wagers on dead men and women?! I don’t need your panglossian lectures! Why are you acting like everything’s perfectly fine?”

“What else can I do?” A’chago fired back. “I can’t fight this, I can’t save us, I don’t-I don’t know what to do either, but there’s got to be something, otherwise what have we been fighting for all this time? Hydaelyn wouldn’t force us through this just to take everything away at the last moment.”

His impassioned speech at least served to quiet Alphinaud for a while, though he sulked and scowled and slouched in his seat. A’chago swallowed around the lump in his throat. Bremondt kept them going straight and steady, so A’chago bowed his head and prayed. 

Azeyma, my Warden, keep the Scions safe, he begged. Keep them out of harm’s way. Keep them alive. Hydaelyn, show me what to do. Show me the path. Please. I don’t know what to do. 

Nobody answered, but A’chago told himself that they would. They would, right?

…

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a'chago: if the world was ending you'd come over right?   
> a'chago: right?   
> hydaelyn: no <3  
> a'chago, distressed: if the world was ending you'd come over right?  
> hydaelyn: no <3


	19. Make Up Day - Where The Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a tribe lore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls dont look at this i had a rough weekend and then just vomited shit up on the page and its sooooooooooo rough afwea;ifoawjf;ld

A’chago balanced on the very tips of his toes, stretching up to peer over the edge of the countertop while his mom stirred cookie batter in a bowl. He watched as she moved the spoon one way then the other, the thick brown batter chunky and thick against the spoon. She caught him staring and leaned over to press a kiss between his ears, prompting him to cry out and push her away. 

He liked to help his mom. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, taller than his dad and paler, too, with long blonde hair and bright green eyes. She looked like an angel. She’d give him kisses on his nose when he helped her around the house. 

Today they were baking cookies while she told him stories about Gridania. Usually his dad would be the one telling him stories, or A’sosne’s husband, Z’cohto, who was a _real-life adventurer._ But Gridania was nice to hear about, too. 

His mom had grown up in Gridania, with the other faction of the A tribe. There were two: his dad’s, and his mom’s. They used to be the same, but then his great grandfather split the tribe in two. His favorite story is the tale of two nunhs: his mom’s great-grandpa, A’dhayu, and his dad’s grandpa, A’dhulo. 

“Mom,” he said, leaning back on his heels while still holding onto the counter for balance, “Can you tell me about great-grandpa again?”

His mom laughed and flicked her ponytail over her shoulder. “Yes, but only if you grease up that pan for these cookies,” she replied. A’chago hurriedly scampered off to the fridge to get the butter. It was cold, so he held it in its wrapper in his hands, breathing on it to warm it up. 

A’milhu Yhiyo gave the batter one last firm stir, then set it down on the counter. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and it left a smear of flour. She smiled at A’chago and sat down on the floor so that he could look her in the eye. “Come here, baby,” she said, pulling him into her lap while he giggled uncontrollably. She pressed her face to the top of his head and blew a raspberry. 

“Alright,” she said, whispering. A’chago curled up closer to his chest. He loved it when his mom told stories-she told the _best_ ones. “Once upon a time, in the hot and arid deserts of Central Thanalan, there was a very strong tribe. Their people were proud and fierce, and hunted with all the grace of the antelopes they named themselves after. They lived in a hidden enclave behind a dazzling blue waterfall, where the famed Azeyma roses grew. They say that Ul’dah is the jewel of the desert, but really, it was this tribe’s homeland. The hidden jewel of the desert, the garden of the wild rose.”

A’chago could see it clearly in his mind. It almost felt like he was really there, looking at all the people milling about in the valley behind the waterfall. He could see the elaborate tents they slept in, the campfires they ate their food around, could hear the sounds of their songs and see their intricate dances. The pictures were his favorite part of the stories his mom told. 

“The A tribe was led by a fearsome warrior named A’ruhlih Nunh, the Unflinching Bow. He and his wife, A’hratyiah, were the best warriors in the tribe, and the most benevolent leaders. Together, they kept the tribe safe and well-fed, and no one knew discord. The days passed by in a blur of sunshine and the thrill of the hunt, and parties around warm fires and dancing ‘til the sun went down.”

In A’chago’s head, A’ruhlih was a tall man with reddish-brown hair, kind of like Sosne’s, and a wicked smirk. A’hratyiah was tiny next to him, but her arms were well-muscled and she had an equally devilish expression. Her hair was black as the night, just like his. 

“They had one son, a boy named A’dhayu. My great-grandfather.” And A’chago could see him, a boisterous baby boy with his father’s height and his mother’s bright pink eyes. He felt something warm and wet in his hands: the butter had warmed up and was starting to melt. He twisted out of his mother’s embrace and used a knife from the drawer to spread it over the pan evenly. A’milhu stood up as well, and grabbed the bowl of cookie batter. Once he finished, she started to dole out little circles of dough. 

“Life was good. But it was not meant to last,” she said. “During a particularly difficult hunt with a monstrous beast, A’hratyiah died. A’ruhlih was distraught. For moons afterward, the tribe suffered as A’ruhlih withdrew into himself, leaving them to their own devices. He decided to leave the tribe for a while. He left in the middle of the night, and only told his second in command what he intended to do. He left her in charge and vanished. 

He journeyed for many long days, and eventually, he found himself in the mountain territory of the Condor tribe. They nearly killed him, as a Nunh in another’s territory is grounds for war, but the Condor nunh’s daughter, a woman named T’cet, convinced her father to wait. Look, she said. He has clearly been traveling a long time. We should allow him to rest and recuperate, then send him on his way. And A’ruhlih had been traveling a very long time. His body had grown weak during his journey, his mind even more so. He was riddled with guilt and grief over losing A’hratyiah. The Condor nunh agreed, and T’cet nursed A’ruhlih back to health. They fell in love, and when it came time to return to the A tribe, T’cet went with him.”

A’milhu finished spreading out the balls of cookie dough and put them into the oven. Conspiratorially, she handed him the spoon so he could lick the batter off, then continued with her story. 

“The A tribe, which had not seen hide nor hair of him in many moons, was apprehensive about letting him come back. A’dhayu, especially. While he was thrilled to be reunited with his father, he had also assumed the title of Nunh in his absence, and was not happy about becoming a Tia again. Nevertheless, A’ruhlih maintained his title, and life went back to normal. For a little while.”

As much as he liked the adventure and the stories of battles won and glory seized, he was just as much of a fan of the drama and secrecy surrounding his father’s lineage. It was all equally exciting, although Mesca would scoff and say that only battle stories were worth telling. A’chago pulled at his mother’s dress until she picked him up and sat him on the counter. 

A’milhu continued. “There was a young man, an up and coming warrior in his own right, who’d just barely graduated from boyhood. His name was A’dhav, and he seduced T’cet away from A’ruhlih and she bore him a son. A’dhulo.”

The visions in his head were thrilling. He saw A’dhav and T’cet sneaking around behind A’ruhlih’s back at night, saw T’cet’s confliction between her two true loves, felt the suspense as A’ruhlih _almost_ caught them. 

“T’cet and A’dhav were discovered by A’dhayu, who told A’ruhlih, who threw them both out of the tribe. Together, T’cet and A’dhav raised their son in the harsh wilderness of the desert, cast out from paradise, with only each other to rely on.

Eventually, A’dhayu won the title from his father by combat, and had nearly forgotten about his ex-stepmother’s child. But out in the desert, tempered by the harsh life he’d lived, A’dhulo grew stronger and more clever by the day.”

A’dhulo had lived a hard life, according to the visions. A’dhav and T’cet’s love had flickered out after being thrown out of the tribe, and T’cet had eventually left them to return home. It was just A’dhav and A’dhulo, alone, living in a makeshift tent in the middle of the desert. Food was scarce, and the threats were many. Bandits, Ul’dahn soldiers, nomadic tribes...two men alone in the desert were easy targets. A’dhulo grew up learning how to hold a blade before he learned to walk. 

“A’dhulo always dreamed of returning to his father’s homeland and becoming Nunh, so that his father could be accepted back and live an easier life. As soon as he was of age, he returned to the hidden enclave behind the waterfall, and challenged A’dhayu for the title.”

In A’chago’s head, a short-statured young man with brown skin and black hair strode confidently up to the waterfall. He passed through it, and approached A’dhayu, even when all the tribespeople drew their weapons and told him to leave. There was no sound in his vision, but A’dhayu laughed at the man. 

“He lost. He was thrown back out, battered and bruised, and told never to come back,” A’milhu said, chuckling. “That should have been the end of it, but A’dhulo was determined to win his place in the tribe even if it killed him. He tried again, and again, and again, but A’dhayu was nearly twenty years older and far stronger. Eventually, A’dhulo realized he would need to be crafty about earning his place. There was only one other way to become Nunh-if he expanded the tribe’s territory. On his next visit to the enclave, he told A’dhayu of his plan, and swore to him that in three years time he’d have grown the territory from the waterfall up to Ul’dah’s borders. A’dhayu was so certain he’d fail that he bid three of his tribe’s warriors to accompany A’dhulo on his fool’s quest.

The story continued. After a series of trials, A’dhulo managed to create a homestead and secure every ilm of territory he’d promised. Bound by tribal law, A’dhayu was forced to recognize him as the tribe’s first ever second Nunh. Since there were two nunhs, now, they would be able to develop even more territory-so A’dhayu moved his faction to Gridania, and A’dhulo was able to finally bring his father home to the enclave. And, eventually, your father and I were born to the different bloodlines-your father in Thanalan, and myself in Gridania.”

“Tell me how you and dad met!” A’chago cried out, kicking his feet back and forth excitedly. 

A’milhu laughed. “Well, the two factions have to keep track of each other, so when A’shut moved his faction to Meracydia, my father had to trek all the way out here to get updates on how they were and what was going on. I accompanied him once, and imagine my surprise when I learned that the fresh new Thanalan nunh was the most handsome man I’d ever seen! I pursued him relentlessly, and eventually, he fell in love.”

The image of his soft-spoken, gentle mother making his strong and rowdy father blush like a kit was incredibly funny. He could hardly imagine it. 

“Wait,” he said, staring up at her. “Didn’t you love Gridania?”

“Oh, very much so,” his mother replied. “I’ll always love Gridania.”

“Then why’d you stay?”

A’milhu hummed, stroking his ears. “Home is where the heart is, my dear. And my heart belongs with you, your sisters, and your dad.” She smiled. “Now, I believe those cookies are ready.”


	20. lore cheatsheet - family edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a more in-depth look at a'chago's family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want my chapters to match. this isn't an actual fic or anything

Sisters

  * A’sosne, age 38: fiery, disciplined, confident, and brash, A’sosne is the oldest sister and she’s definitely the leader of the pack. Her mother was A’dinyhaga, but died when A’sosne was a child. She mostly raised her younger sisters A’jetnu, A’zhikyo, and A’chofso by herself because their moms were sort of M.I.A. and their dad, A’shut, was always busy. She has four children with her husband, Z’cohto: A’zhoorni Cohto (10), A’donu Tia (8), A’thisu Tia (5), and A’vepri Cohto (3). She’s a pugilist by trade, and she dotes on A’chago and A’mesca like a second mom. 
  * A’jetnu, 33: Quiet, pensive, reflective, and anxious, A’jetnu is the second oldest and she’d much prefer to be left alone versus be in the limelight. Her mother is U’jukyhi, and she still lives with the A tribe even though A’jetnu doesn’t. She and A’sosne would clash a lot growing up because they’re polar opposites. She loves A’zhikyo and A’mesca, and is the only one that A’thalbi will listen to. She ran away from home at age 16 with her boyfriend, D’lhik, and their infant daughter A’nokfa (17). She has another daughter, A’bibbha (6). She currently lives on an island off the coast of Vylbrand, and she’s gone no-contact with A’shut and A’milhu. She’s a weaver, leatherworker, and goldsmith. 
  * A’zhikyo, 30: clever, intelligent, proud, and stern, A’zhikyo is the “smart one”. She’s the most academically inclined of her siblings, and her mother is a woman named N’lhatu. When she was 19, she received a scholarship to study in Sharlyan, and hasn’t looked back since. She joined the Students of Baldesion and studied a little with the Circle of Knowing, but never joined them. She knows _of_ Krile Baldesion, and taught some of G’raha’s classes, but they orbited different social groups. She is an Archon of Aetherology with a specialization in crystallized aetheric residual memories (soul crystals), but after losing contact with the Isle of Val, it is unknown whether or not she’s still alive. She adopted an apprentice, R’suti (10) when he was four, having nursed him back to health after he was abandoned on the Isle.
  * A’chofso, 28: sweet at heart, dreamy, friendly, and very relaxed, A’chofso is a stoner, through and through. It’s not her _only_ defining quality, however, as much as her sister A’zhikyo would insist it is: A’chofso is also a talented botanist and an expert minion handler, and can nurse any plant or animal back to health. She shares a mother with A’zhikyo, and she has no kids. She does, however, have a horde of minions, and her favorite is her chigoe larva. She fought a lot with A’zhikyo growing up, and often feels misunderstood by her family. 
  * A’thalbi, 22: snarky, sharp, gorgeous and extremely volatile, A’thalbi is the black sheep of her family. Her mother was a young woman named A’vhimrura, but she killed herself in the town square when A’thalbi was 8. A’thalbi is an extremely talented black mage, but she has a sadistic streak to her that led to her masters refusing to teach her any more in fear of what she’ll do. She’s got the potential to be the strongest mage of her generation. She bullied A’mesca and A’chago relentlessly growing up, and only A’jetnu has ever been able to get through to her. For most of her life, she’s deeply insecure, possessive, extremely jealous, and cruel, but after a lifetime of neglect and abuse she’s finally begun to get the support and the psychiatric help she needs, and she’s making slow progress toward healing. She has an odd kinship with A’chago. 
  * A’mesca, 19: cocky, confident, brazen, and effusive, A’mesca is A’chago’s identical twin sister and the strongest person he knows. Their mom is A’milhu. She’s trained in white magic and is a formidable huntress, and she left the tribe when she was eighteen to start her own tribe for female survivors of assault. Currently, she’s getting trained to be a trauma therapist so she can further aid her tribe. She’s very close with A’chago, and she’s the older twin, despite what he claims. Thanks to her mixed heritage, she has a very long tail, pronounced fangs, and seeker eyes. 
  * A’chago, 19: warm-hearted, determined, brave, and with a strong desire to help others, A’chago is the youngest of seven children. He’s a momma’s boy and idolizes his father and adores his twin. He’s got a weird kinship with A’thalbi, but they’re very bad for each other and he doesn’t go out of his way to interact with her. Growing up, he was insecure and shy compared to A’mesca, but he’s come into his own as an adult. When he was 19, he left Thavnair to travel to Eorzea as an adventurer, and took up the mantle of Warrior of Light. Thanks to his mixed heritage, he has an extremely long tail compared to the other seeker boys of his tribe, barely noticeable fangs, and seeker eyes. 



Adults

  * A’shut Nunh, 60: A’shut is the nunh of his faction of the A tribe, and he’s a loud, bright, boisterous man. He’s very short, and the twins look exactly like him. All three of them share brown skin, black hair, and orange-yellow eyes. He’s mixed, but he’s more seeker than keeper. He’s very busy, which makes him a little distant, but jovial and entertaining when he’s present. He favors A’chago and A’mesca over the rest of his children. He has somewhat of a strained relationship with his older children. His tail is somewhat on the shorter side, even for seeker men, but he has slightly pronounced fangs alongside traditional seeker eyes. 
  * A’milhu Yhiyo, 54: A’chago and A’mesca’s mom. A’milhu is from the Gridanian faction of the A tribe. She’s gentle, kind, a total sweetheart, and _very_ flirty when she wants to be. She was a wildcard in her youth, but she’s been tempered by time and circumstance and now she’s a loving, doting mother. She strove to develop a good relationship with A’shut’s other children, and the reactions range from A’jetnu, who barely tolerates her, to A’sosne, who treats her like a best friend. She’s also mixed, but she’s more keeper than seeker. She has pale skin, golden blonde hair, bright green eyes, a long, skinny tail, sharp fangs, and keeper eyes. 
  * A’vithro, 33: A’shut’s younger brother, an utterly repulsive excuse of a man who abused A’shut’s children for years without his knowledge. 




	21. Foibles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A'chago has a debilitating oral fixation. G'raha always needs to be doing something with his hands. They make it work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting 3x in one day? yes. am i dead now? yes. did i do at least a little bit of homework? yes, actually! :D
> 
> this is spicy in the way that white people think mint is spicy. pls enjoy <3

A’chago fidgets with his quill, taking the end of it into his mouth as he stares at the page. The parchment is covered in long, thin lines with the Eorzean alphabet written in little dots, lovingly rendered by his horrible boyfriend who wouldn’t let him be illiterate in _peace._ A’chago lifts his gaze to glare at said boyfriend, who’s leaning back in his seat, arms crossed behind his head, with a patient expression on his face. They’re seated at a desk within Dawn’s Respite, where A’chago had hoped they would nap the afternoon away, but G’raha pulled out a stack of tomes and a quill and put him to work. Claimed literacy was a ‘necessary skill’ or some bullshit. 

Damn him. A’chago looks back down at the page and chews at the quill. Perhaps if he just scribbled something out, G’raha would let him off the hook? He hovers over the first letter, the ‘A’. The dots are arranged in a series of numbered strokes: thankfully, there’s only two here, but they’ve got _directions_ and _order_ and a whole other load of things he doesn’t understand the importance of. 

“Honestly,” G’raha says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk, “I can’t believe Professor A’zhikyo is your sister.”

And that had started the entire thing, really. A’zhikyo, A’chago’s older sister, had left home at the ripe old age of nineteen on a scholarship to study in Sharlyan, where she’d made herself an Archon and even become a professor. A’chago had offhandedly mentioned her name while telling G’raha about his family, and G’raha’s face had lit up. Apparently, she was a junior professor while he was a student, and had taught some of his classes. Her work in Aetherology was groundbreaking, according to G’raha. Small world, he’d said. To think that we’d shared this connection even before we’d met...she mentioned family in Thavnair, but who knew the little brother she casually referenced during lessons would become the Warrior of Light?

A’zhikyo had always been the smart one out of his sisters. A’chago hasn’t heard from her the Isle of Val disappeared which is...concerning, considering everyone died, literally _everyone,_ but A’zhikyo claimed to be living in Sharylan and not the Isle during her last correspondence so he’s holding out hope that she’s still out there. Last he heard, she was training her apprentice R’suti as a scholar. 

She had attempted to teach him and Mesca how to write when they were young, but it never stuck and eventually she gave up. A’chago eventually forgot what little she’d managed to teach him, and as a result, he’s been completely illiterate his entire life. 

“She tried to teach me, too, but I was too dull a student for even her to help,” A’chago tells G’raha proudly, removing the quill from his mouth. “I don’t know what makes you think you’ll have better luck.”

G’raha grins. “Oh, but I have something she did not-motivation! Please consider: you love me and would do anything I asked.”

A’chago makes a face at him, but doesn’t dispute it. Gods know he’s said those exact words to G’raha dozens of times over. G’raha gives him a wicked smirk and then gestures toward the parchment. Groaning, A’chago puts pen to paper and begins to shakily trace out letters. 

“The echo will just tell me what’s important if I really need to read something,” he grumbles. “Beam the information directly into my head, like a magical literacy spell. Why can’t I just take a magical literacy potion or something?”

G’raha raises an eyebrow. “You’re vastly overestimating magic’s current capabilities, love. Besides, I asked you to refill the sugar and you refilled it with salt because you couldn’t read the labels.”

“If you’d let me eat some I would’ve figured it out.”

“You’d stick your whole tongue in the jar and contaminate it. I’m not going to enable your oral fixation,” G’raha says, rolling his eyes. “As a matter of fact, get that quill out of your mouth. It’s filthy.”

A’chago pulls his lips back to show his teeth and pointedly bites the quill, so far down the shaft that the feathers tickle his throat. It’s worth the discomfort, though, because G’raha makes a disgusted face and reaches out to take it from him. A’chago leans out of reach and holds the quill over his head. 

“Uh-uh! You wanted me to learn how to write, I can’t do that without a quill!” he argues, pushing the chair back until it’s balanced on its rear legs and G’raha’s reaching over the table. He can’t quite grasp it. Defeated, he slumps back into his seat and A’chago celebrates his victory. He moves to put the quill back in his mouth but then G’raha stretches across the table and claps his hand over his mouth. 

“Absolutely not,” he says firmly. “I’ll stay like this while you practice your letters if I have to.”

A’chago looks him directly in the eye, waiting. G’raha doesn’t budge. A few more moments pass without G’raha removing his hand, so A’chago deliberately opens his mouth and licks at his fingers. Instead of getting grossed out, G’raha’s eyes go wide. He briefly oscillates between repulsion and intrigue, but finally lands on intrigue, and he keeps his hand where it is. He raises his eyebrows at A’chago. It’s a challenge if he’s ever seen one. 

A’chago sucks one long finger into his mouth, carefully lapping at it with his tongue. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but if the look on G’raha’s face is any indication, he’s doing something right. He presses his tongue against the bottom of G’raha’s finger and swirls it around. 

He keeps going until he’s got the three innermost fingers in his mouth, gently bobbing up and down in a simulacrum of something far more explicit. G’raha’s looking at him like he hung the sun in the sky, and wow, A’chago wants to make him look like that more often. He goes down slowly, hollowing his cheeks and sucking, then pulls back up, glancing up to gauge G’raha’s reaction. 

G’raha looks wrecked and he hasn’t even _done_ anything. His pupils are blown and his face is bright red. A’chago smiles around the fingers in his mouth and pulls off completely, kissing the tip of each one. Then, he nips one for good measure. The sharpness of his teeth makes G’raha jolt slightly in his chair. 

For reasons unknown to man and in a move that will definitely make him cringe later, A’chago wipes the drool off his lips with the back of his hand and asks G’raha, “Can I be done with my lesson now, Professor?”

G’raha stares at him, completely shocked. Then he comes back to himself. “Uh, no, you haven’t written anything,” he says haughtily. “Just because you play naughty tricks doesn’t mean you’re getting out of _this_ particular lesson.”

A’chago slams his head down on the desk and groans. “Are you _serious?_ ” he complains. “Raha, this is so _boring._ ”

G’raha kicks one leg over the other smoothly and smirks. “If you finish this lesson, I’ll punish you for talking back to me. And for trying to distract me.” He rests his chin in his hand, watching A’chago’s reaction. 

A’chago gulps and tightens his grip on the quill, but the smile that threatens to split his face succeeds despite the shiver of anticipation that runs down his spine. “Promise?” he asks. 

“You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”

A’chago hurriedly rewets his quill and gets to work. If this is how all the lessons will go, he’s going to be the best damn student in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to the discord server: ty for the motivation :)


	22. Argy-Bargy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A'chago spends some much needed time with his bff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short bc i dislike it and also @ british people i'm so sorry i amercanized ur culture

A’chago storms into the Ala Mhigan Quarter like a gryphon on a rampage. He stomps his way past traveling merchants and town representatives, with a single destination in mind: the meeting hall of the Fourth Royal Casern, where Lyse and Raubahn had set up a base of operations for the Resistance. He marches up the stone steps with only a stiff nod to the gate guard and slams open the doors. 

Inside, Lyse is seated at a very long table with a stack of reports in front of her. She jumps at the noise, but when she sees it’s just him, she relaxes. “Oh, A’chago. Is everything alright? Have you and G’raha settled in?”

Lyse had invited A’chago and G’raha out to the Quarter as soon as she returned from Doma, insisting that she meet the newest Scion and A’chago’s mysterious partner. They’d been only too happy to accept. A’chago and G’raha teleported into the Quarter a few bells ago and had already set up their space in one of the empty homes. That wasn’t why he was _here,_ though, bothering Lyse. 

“I can’t _stand_ him!” A’chago announces, turning his nose into the air and flopping down into a seat across from Lyse. “Well, no, that’s not true-he’s the love of my life. But I can’t stand him!”

Lyse sets her reports aside and steeples her hands, looking quite sophisticated for a moment, but then she smirks and bites her lip. “Oh? A lover’s spat? Did you two have a little argy-bargy on your way in? Please, tell me everything.”

Instead of answering her, A’chago groans and props his head up in his hand. On one hand, their argument wasn’t even a real argument-and he feels quite silly thinking about it in retrospect. On the other hand, it’s been far too long since he’s had the chance to gossip with his best friend, and he feels compelled to embellish a little. “He’s just so...we were teasing each other, doing a little back and forth, so I said ‘it’s the horrible coeurl print arm guards for me’, and he said ‘it’s the learning conjury because you’re insecure for me’, and then I said ‘it’s the three hundred year old man in the twenty-four year old’s body for me’, and then _he_ said ‘it’s the being alive for twenty-eight years but still being stuck as a nineteen year old muscle twink for me’, which, he’s _right,_ but he shouldn’t _say_ it!” A’chago finishes, gesturing wildly. He glances at Lyse to make sure she’s still listening. 

She’s not. She’s got one hand covering her mouth, poorly muffling her giggles, and the other one crossed underneath. After she composes herself, she tells him, “He’s not wrong, though.” 

“Lyse!” A’chago exclaims. “You’re supposed to be supporting me. I’m not a twink. I’m thick now. Look.” To demonstrate, A’chago stands up and twists this way and that in front of her. “These thighs aren’t twink thighs,” he insists. “This thick waist? These superior core muscles? I’m barrel-chested, baby.”

Lyse gives him a withering look. “You’re still 5’2”. You could be a replacement for Raubahn’s missing arm.”

A’chago glares at her. “Anyways,” he says flippantly, sitting back down, “I’m breaking up with Raha and running away back home tomorrow, don’t bother looking for me.”

She’s too used to his bullshit, she barely bats an eye. Instead, she stands up and stretches. “You do that,” she says. “I’m going to go seduce G’raha if he’s single now.” She smiles innocently at him. 

A’chago is up in a flash. He moves so quickly the reports go fluttering in the air. “Absolutely not, you witch,” he says. “You already have Hien. And M’naago!”

“What’s adding one more to my collection?”

“Lyse!”

She laughs openly. “I’m just teasing. Come on now, I’m tired of reading these reports. Let’s go find G’raha and hunt some yabbies or something, gods, I’m aching for a fight!” Lyse shoves in her chair and heads to the door. A’chago follows hot on her heels. She blows out the lanterns on her way out, and they walk back to the main road together.


	23. Shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilberd comes to Camp Dragonhead to fetch the wayward Warrior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay this one is actually as long as I prefer to write chapters! it's also sad.
> 
> CW: bad mental health, suicidal/self-harm ideation, implied/referenced domestic assault, implied/referenced noncon, implied/referenced physical abuse, gaslighting, manipulation

The snow came down in torrents, harsh and freezing. The guards, only a barebones shift thanks to the weather, are little more than amorphous blobs layered in furs and armor. Nobody is outside if they don’t absolutely have to be. The stables have been closed and the chocobos piled with blankets. The rest of Camp Dragonhead curls around a fire if they can find one, or stays tucked in their beds if they can’t.

A’chago Tia steps outside with little more than a thin sweater and trousers. The chill takes his breath away-it’s so cold, it burns. He can feel his eyes dry out and the snot in his nose freeze. The cold sinks its claws deep into his lungs with every breath he takes. It’s perfect.

He doesn’t bother bracing against it, just opens himself up to the freezing temperature and forces himself to acclimate. Haurchefant would have his head if he knew he was outside-as would Zacelle, probably. They don’t need to know.

He just wants a little time to himself, without everyone and their mother looking over their shoulder at him as if they’re worried he’s going to kill himself. A’chago scoffs at the idea. He’s not going to kill himself. No rest for Hydaelyn’s chosen.

A’chago can’t kill himself, but he can stay outside until his lips turn blue and the icy winds feel like they’re cutting him open. It’s a healthier alternative than literally cutting himself open, he reasons. Zacelle would disagree, but, he’s not thinking about Zacelle, is he? He’s simply admiring the world around him.

A’chago shuffles outside of the camp and heads toward the small pool on the side of the Camp, outside the walls. It’s so cold out that the pond has developed a substantial layer of ice overtop it-A’chago tests the thickness with his foot and it doesn’t crack, even under considerable pressure. It’s pretty. The water underneath the ice is black, the snow that falls on top of it is a lovely contrast. Briefly, A’chago wonders how he might replicate the effect using fabric. He’s been weaving a lot more lately. There’s not much else he _can_ do. Zacelle has forbidden him from contacting the other Scions, while Haurchefant hovers and fusses.

It was sweet the first week, when he’d desperately needed a moment to gather himself and heal. Now, though, nearing week three of his imprisonment, A’chago is itching with restlessness and no small amount of anxiety to get back into the swing of things. The most he’s been allowed to do is join the guards during training.

He’s nearly healed, anyroad. The bruises have turned green, his bones are on the mend, he doesn’t bleed anywhere, even if he exerts himself. He can sit down and stand up without wincing. He’ll be able to hold his own in battle. But despite this, despite everything, he can’t force himself to return to Mor Dhona.

The thought of it rolls uncomfortably in his stomach. He doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want to answer questions, or work alongside the Crystal Braves, or _ever_ see his room again, or-

Shorn white hair and a stiff blue coat fill his mind’s eye. A’chago slaps himself as hard as he dares to make it go away.

So, no, he’ll put up with staying at Camp Dragonhead for as long as he pleases, even if he can’t stand sitting still. It’s better than the alternative. There _is_ no alternative. A’chago tilts his head back so that the snow falls on his face, his throat.

Not for the first time, he wishes he never left Thavnair. Wishes he never was an adventurer. He wishes he’d fucked G’raha when he had the chance. He wishes he’d never fallen into Ilberd’s bed, because now all he has is a twin set of memories of _two_ men who’d ruined him.

Ilberd was so kind in the beginning. A true gentleman, always lauding A’chago’s praises, giving him gifts, treating him well-until, until, until. Until A’chago had wanted space. Until the first time they’d disagreed over Ala Mhigo. Until A’chago had _stupidly_ flirted with that woman at the bar, by smiling and giving her ‘eyes’-he’s still not sure what that means-and broke Ilberd’s heart.

The Ala Mhigan one might actually be a little valid, A’chago thinks wearily. Ala Mhigo is Ilberd’s _home,_ of course he’d want the Scions to pledge their allegiance to the cause and take the fight to Garlemald. There just never seems to be any _time._ It’s a weak excuse, he knows. No wonder Ilberd had slapped him across the face for running his mouth. You don’t insult a man’s homeland.

And the barmaid had been his fault too. He knows Ilberd is insecure. He knows that he gets jealous. He should’ve been more professional and shouldn’t have embarrassed the both of them by acting like a whore. And wanting space, he knows Ilberd worries that A’chago will abandon him, and A’chago hadn’t even told him where he was going, just disappeared for a whole day. He was worried, that was why he’d yelled. No matter that A’chago was working. How was Ilberd supposed to have known?

Zacelle would tell him to stop defending Ilberd, but all A’chago can think about is how he took this brilliant, brave, determined man and brought out the worst in him. There must be something about himself that’s poisonous.

A stiff gust cuts through him, sending needle pricks of ice stinging his cheeks and his hands. A’chago suddenly jolts back to reality. He’s been standing in the snow for a while now. He can’t really feel his hands when he moves them. It’s time to head back in. He adjusts his sweater and starts to go back inside when he hears it.

It’s barely noticeable beneath the howling wind, but he’s certain he heard the crunch of snow and ice underneath a heavy boot. A’chago turns in the direction of the sound. There’s nothing there but snow-covered foliage and the rocks that separate Dragonhead from Providence Point. There’s simply no place for someone to hide, which must mean the sound is from...A’chago turns to his left, just slightly, toward Natalan, and _there._ He sees a figure standing in the snow a few yalms away. It’s snowing too hard for him to make out any details.

“Ho, stranger!” he calls out to them. “Are you lost?”

The figure doesn’t answer, but they do approach. A’chago suddenly feels on edge, the Echo sending a wave of adrenaline down his spine. As the figure gets closer, A’chago realizes why.

Stiff blue coat. White hair. Deep set frown, the one that means A’chago _fucked up._ The world comes to a standstill.

Funnily enough, the only thought in A’chago’s head as his world fractures is ‘huh, he’s not really dressed for the weather, either.’ And then his mind is wiped blank when Ilberd comes to a stop in front of him.

Fear is so much colder than the snow. A’chago doesn’t think he’s breathing. Ilberd looms over him. A’chago barely comes up to his shoulder. This can’t be real.

“Found you,” Ilberd says with a soft smile. It’s so horribly creepy, but the other man just looks relieved, like A’chago is somebody’s missing child, and he’s not sure which is worse.

He’s so close that A’chago can see his breath fog in the cold. A’chago can’t look away from his face. Ilberd smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He leans in until his face is mere ilms from A’chago’s. “You gave me quite a fright, darling,” he whispers. “Disappearing like that.”

A’chago takes a step back and his back hits the wall of the Camp. He remembers the reduced guard shift and the emptiness of the Camp. _Nobody is outside unless they absolutely have to be._ His own words come back to haunt him. No one will see him. They’re alone.

“You’ve got Alphinaud in a right tizzy,” Ilberd continues, still speaking as though A’chago is a frightened child-which, to be fair, he certainly feels like. “Poor boy is struggling to keep his new company together, and then his champion disappears in the middle of the night? So selfish.”

Some of the fear starts to ebb away, getting replaced by anger. What right does Ilberd have to bring up Alphinaud? Or call A’chago _selfish_ for trying not to die?

But the reasonable part of him, the one that knows this situation is of his own making, sees the truth in Ilberd’s words. Alphinaud has been struggling, and it was selfish of A’chago to abandon him without a word. There was probably a lot of damage control the rest of the Scions had to undertake to avoid questions being asked.

Minfilia did send a letter to Camp Dragonhead asking if Haurchefant had seen A’chago, but upon A’chago’s request and Zacelle’s advice, Haurchefant had merely replied that he had it in good confidence that A’chago was safe. She must’ve told the rest of the Scions, and Alphinaud must have told the Crystal Braves. He tries not to feel betrayed. Alphinaud doesn’t know what happened.

“What are you going to do to me?” A’chago asks instead, thanking the gods that his voice remains steady. “Hit me?”

He really shouldn’t taunt Ilberd. It’s what’s gotten him in this mess. He’s such a fucking tease, he’s just been asking for it this whole time-

Ilberd’s expression sobers, but in a mean way. “That was wrong of me, darling. I’m sorry for defending myself against the one who struck first.” His dark eyes glint with the fiery steel that’s just daring A’chago to contradict him.

He can’t. He did hit Ilberd first. But he’d begged Ilberd to stop, and he hadn’t, and A’chago had panicked. He lashed out. Like a beast. He should’ve had better control of himself. He’s the Warrior of Light, he should’ve just handled it. He could’ve handled it. Guilt, swampy and nauseating, rises in his throat like stomach bile.

“I need to hear it, pet,” Ilberd says gently.

A’chago closes his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. A tear snakes down his cheek-why the fuck is he _crying?_ He shouldn’t be-he’s-he takes a breath and tries to compose himself.

“For?”

“For hitting you first. For...provoking you.” The words taste like ash on his tongue, but A’chago knows that they’re the right ones to say because Ilberd relaxes and stands up straight.

“Sloppy, but passable,” Ilberd says, crossing his arms. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

A’chago mutely shakes his head. Exhaustion sinks into his bones, deeper and more invasive than the cold.

“Now, onto business. You’ve been shirking your duties as the Warrior of Light, and the rest of us have had to pick up your slack. Your friends are running themselves ragged trying to pick up after you, you know. I don’t think I’ve seen Thancred in days, and Miss Minfilia hasn’t slept for more than a handful of hours at a time.”

A’chago’s jaw trembles. He’d never considered how much work he would force the Scions to deal with in his absence. He never thought about the consequences of his actions. And Minfilia doesn’t get enough sleep with him present, she must be running herself into the ground, oh, gods, he’s such a horrible friend.

Ilberd notices his expression. “Well, don’t go pretending to be sad about it _now,_ ” he scoffed. “You certainly had no problems leaving us all behind the night you left. Quit your crying. Are you going to come back and fix the mess you’ve made or are you going to keep throwing your little temper tantrum out here in the snow with your elezen friend who’s too kind to throw you to the wolves like you deserve?”

It’s too painful to look Ilberd in the eye, so A’chago looks at his boots. They’re new. They’re getting covered in snow the longer they stand out here. How long has he been out here?

“I need an answer, pet.”

He hates that nickname the most. Ilberd only uses it when he’s in trouble. A’chago opens his mouth to answer, but then someone’s storming around the corner and brandishing a weapon at Ilberd.

“Excuse me,” Haurchefant says, icily. “Are you perhaps unfamiliar with our customs? We typically ask travelers to pass through the main gates, not harangue our guests behind our backs.”

Ilberd was only two ilms shorter than Haurchefant, but he had to lift his chin slightly to look the elezen in the eye. His expression does a couple complicated gymnastics before he decides that the tentative political relationship between the Scions and Camp Dragonhead is more important than harassing A’chago. He flexes his jaw. “No need to get hostile. I was just passing along a message to the Warrior of Light. Be seeing you two,” he says tonelessly, before saluting them both and heading back the way he came.

Once he’s out of sight, A’chago goes boneless, crumpling where he stands. Haurchefant is there in a flash to catch him, and A’chago clings to him like a lifeline.

“My friend, I cannot apologize enough for not coming sooner,” Haurchefant is murmuring over and over again. “I did not know he was here. I promise you, I did not know.”

A’chago doesn’t respond to him, just holds onto him until he starts shaking, and then buries his face in Haurchefant’s thick coat. “Can we go inside?” he asks, straining much harder than necessary to keep his voice even. Gods, even his tail has gone numb from being outside for so long. His hands are blue where they’re fisted in Haurchefant’s coat.

Haurchefant immediately stands him up and walks him back into camp, and doesn’t try to make him let go until they’re safely within A’chago’s room. A’chago can’t move his frozen fingers on his own, so Haurchefant gently uncurls them and separates himself so he can start a fire. A’chago can’t do much more than watch.

There’s a line of tension between Haurchefant’s shoulder blades as he shucks his coat and strikes the match to bring the fireplace to life. A’chago knows he feels guilty for not being there, but he doesn’t really have the emotional capacity to deal with it right now. Instead, he hisses as the warmth in the room makes his skin burn.

“Would you like some tea?” Haurchefant asks, rising. A’chago nods. The elezen hurriedly busies himself with the kettle and the leaves that live in the cupboards of A’chago’s ensuite kitchen, wavering before settling on the chamomile.

While the tea boils, A’chago discovers that he’s capable of moving his limbs without pain once more. He flexes his hands, rolls his ankles. His tail is still deathly cold, so he takes it in his hands and smooths it down, trying to warm it up. It half-works.

The tea finishes, and Haurchefant returns with two steaming cups. “It’s hot,” he says, which is redundant, but A’chago knows that he talks when he’s nervous. He gratefully accepts and blows on it gently.

“For lack of better phrasing-are you okay?” Haurchefant asks him.

A’chago shrugs. He doesn’t speak. He knows he can because he’s still ‘here’, but he’s very close to not being. That alone forces him to answer. “Been better,” he grunts.

It earns him a wiry smile. That’s one thing about Haurchefant that he likes-at first, he kept trying to make A’chago feel better. Now, he just lets him be. It’s a mercy he’s unused to.

“Zacelle mentioned you were late for your appointment today, so I went out looking for you. By the time I found you, well…” Haurchefant trails off. “If I’d known, I would’ve driven him out of Coerthas before you even knew he was here.”

Oh, hells, he had an appointment with Zacelle-he checks the clock-half a bell ago. He’ll make it up tomorrow if she has time. She’s taken to treating the other soldiers for dragonshock while she’s here, so it’s up in the air.

But back to what Haurchefant had said, there was no way for him to know Ilberd would show up. A’chago hadn’t heard from him since the night he ran away. And it was good to get an update on things with the Scions, even if it was mostly bad.

“It’s alright,” A’chago replies. “I needed to be put in my place.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Haurchefant’s face turns pinched and worried, but he doesn’t say anything. The silence afterward is long and awkward.

“I didn’t know I had made life worse for the Scions by leaving,” A’chago tries to explain. “I needed to know. I need to go back.”

“Please don’t,” Haurchefant says quickly. “Don’t go back. Zacelle didn’t want you to have contact with the Scions for at least six moons, much less Ilberd.”

“I should, though,” A’chago argues. “They need me. So long as I don’t make Ilberd angry, it’ll be alright.”

“You make Ilberd angry by breathing,” Haurchefant snaps, then immediately backs off. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

A’chago knows him well enough to know that his anger isn’t directed at him specifically, but he still flinches. He stares at his tea, then takes a sip. It’s still hot enough to burn.

“The Scions need you healthy,” Haurchefant says much quieter. “I’ve been keeping a steady correspondence with Minfilia. I can show you the letters. She knows you’re on a leave of absence, and she knows that no one is to bother you unless it’s another calamity. They’re fine.”

Which means Ilberd disobeyed a direct order, or Alphinaud did, A’chago infers. His shoulders sag. “I’d like to see them tomorrow,” he says. “Right now, I’d just like to sleep.” He’s so tired. He feels the ache in his bones.

Haurchefant nods, then stands up and pours the tea down the sink. Before he leaves, he says, “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

A’chago waves him off. It’s one thing to offer that, and another entirely to take him up on the offer. He doesn’t particularly want to think about anything, though. He shucks off his wet clothes that are soaked due to the snow on them melting, pulls on a clean sweater and shorts, and crawls into bed. By the time his head hits the pillow he’s fast asleep.


	24. Beam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after a lively battle, A'chago gets a much needed bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing happy things makes me happy :)

A’chago stretches languidly, bringing one hand up to his shoulder to massage out the soreness. Despite his efforts, the muscle remains tight and coiled. He rolls his neck and gains no relief. 

The battle had been hard, long, thrilling-fighting with G’raha by his side always was-but the aftermath of swinging around a sword taller than him always left his arms screaming for relief. A’chago flicks monster goo off his shoulder and brushes the hair out of his face. 

The monster, a rather gruesome beast with chitinous plating and poisonous barbs, lays on its back in front of them. It was bisected at the thorax and definitely won’t be attacking any more merchants any time soon. Next to it, G’raha is excitedly pulling off pieces of its exoskeleton, chatting away to Alisaie, who looks morbidly fascinated. A’chago heads over to them. 

“And that’s why if your expedition leader instructs you to gather materials in the field, you never want to face one of these things with anything that can pierce, unless you can get the exposed joints, because the armor needs to be cut away at. Oh, hello, my love!” G’raha smiles at him brightly, bloody shell in his hands forgotten. 

A’chago returns his smile warmly and claps Alisaie on the shoulder hard enough to make her stumble a few steps forward. “What are you two up to?” he asks. 

G’raha’s ears perk up. “I was just telling Mistress Alisaie about my first encounter with one of these creatures. It involved a fair amount more running for my life than swift victory, but I didn’t have the aid of the most formidable warriors in the realm, then.” He’s talking animatedly, tail whisking back and forth, ears giving away every little expression he feels. Fondness is a physical thing that A’chago can feel wrapping around him. His can feel his face softening as he listens to G’raha continue. He leans on Alisaie’s shoulder and watches G’raha explain the finer points of monster anatomy. 

“Ugh, you’re dripping guts on me! Get off!” Alisaie shouts, shoving at him roughly. She knocks him off balance and it takes him a moment to catch himself. When he stands upright again, she’s brandishing her rapier. “You,” she says, pointing it at him accusingly, “need a bath.” 

A’chago looks down at himself. It’s not _that_ bad. He’s streaked with blood, sure, and oh, he’s got bits of..it might be an eye? Stuck on one of the spikes of his gauntlets, but his sword is far worse off than he is. “I’m not that gross.”

G’raha reaches over and delicately plucks a lump of squishy matter out of his hair. He makes a pained face when it oozes around his fingers. “She has the right of it,” he says, flinging it into the bushes.

If he were a better man, A’chago would take his leave and go clean himself up. As it stands, however, he opens his arms wide and moves to wrap G’raha in a hug. “Raha, come here!” he says with a grin. 

“No! Get away from me!” G’raha laughs, dodging his attacks and looping around to hide behind Alisaie. “Alisaie, use displacement!” 

“Wh-oh, sacrifice the girl, I see how it is!” Alisaie shouts, backing away from A’chago and holding her rapier between them. “A’chago, don’t you dare come any closer!”

He advances slowly, arms stretched wide and taking big, lumbering steps. “I just want a hug,” he says cheerily. 

Y’shtola and Urianger appear from the other side of the massive beast, talking idly amongst themselves. Their conversation comes to a stop, however, when they realize what their teammates are up to.

Urianger speaks first. “Pray tell, what is the meaning of this?”

A’chago pauses in his advance and looks at him. Urianger looks disgusted, Y’shtola confused. He spies two easy targets. “Urianger! Y’shtola!” he cries, turning toward them and breaking into a full sprint.

Urianger’s eyes go wide and he holds his hands out in front of him as if to ward off A’chago’s incoming attack. “Prithee, wait! Dost thou not wish to give our dear companion and metaphorical brood mother Y’shtola the gift of thy loving embrace first?”

A’chago pauses and tilts his head. Y’shtola looks at him warily, but she can’t see anything _on_ him, just his general aetheric signature. It would be cruel to assault a blind woman. It’s not below him. 

“Y’shtola!” he yells, wrapping his arms around his midsection before lifting her and spinning her around in the air. 

She’s clearly caught off guard, but she wraps her arms around him anyway, smiling fondly. Until her fingers brush another glob of monster goo in his hair and she shrieks loud enough to make the birds in the nearby forest abandon their perches. 

“And here I was thinking you genuinely wished to share your affection with me,” she says exasperatedly. “I should have known you were only looking to play a nasty _trick._ ”

“Nu-uh,” A’chago says, but it’s muffled in her ribcage. “I also wanted a hug.” He sets her down gently, though, and even brushes some of the goop off of her dress. 

“Right, then,” Alisaie says, walking up to them with G’raha still cowering behind her back. “I don’t know about you lot but I’m going to return to the Stones and take a _long_ bath, and then I intend to drink until dawn to celebrate our victory with the rest of our friends.” She shakes G’raha off and clears her throat, beginning to cast a teleportation spell. Urianger and Y’shtola follow suit, leaving just A’chago and G’raha. 

A’chago tilts his head back so he can feel the sunlight on his face. It had been overcast while they were fighting the monster, but now, the skies had parted. There was nothing above them but the clear blue sky and the trees on the outskirts of his vision. 

G’raha comes up next to him and snakes a hand into his. “This was fun,” he says after a beat. 

A’chago hums in agreement. Gore and guts aside, being able to flip around the battlefield and swing his sword is always a treat. And, thanks to Urianger’s top-rate healing, he’s walking away with nary a scratch. He turns to look at G’raha. 

G’raha’s looking at him. His ruby eyes are warm and glowing, and he’s got a soft smile on his face. Standing in the clearing, he’s a splash of red against the gray rocks and blue sky. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” A’chago asks, using their clasped hands to knock G’raha gently in the chest. 

“Because I’m in love,” G’raha answers easily. The fond look never leaves his face, but his eyes do dart between A’chago’s as if to gauge his reaction. 

He can’t help himself. A’chago laughs brightly and pulls G’raha in for a kiss. G’raha lets out a muffled shout, but it’s swallowed between their lips. 

When he does manage to push A’chago away, he’s flushed a very pretty pink. “You’re still dirty! Kiss me after you bathe!” he complains, swatting A’chago on the chest. 

A’chago pretends to be annoyed, but he doesn’t let go of G’raha’s hand even when they teleport back to the Rising Stones. The purple and blue magics of the teleportation spell swirl around them and take them back home. 

After being deposited on the steps of the Seventh Heaven, it’s a quick walk back to their room and then a matter of getting the bath ready. A’chago uses his blue mage soulstone to cast water cannon several dozen times instead of fetching water like a normal person. G’raha uses magic to heat it up afterward. 

A’chago strips quickly and sinks into the water with a blissful sigh. The heat does wonders for his sore arms, which hadn’t assuaged in the slightest since defeating the monster. He lets his head rest against the lip of the tub and closes his eyes. 

The sound of pouring water makes him lift his head up. G’raha is pouring oils into the water, sweet smelling flowery concoctions that make the water shimmer where the sunbeams from their window hit it. G’raha’s eyes flick up from where he’s concentrating and briefly lock onto A’chago’s. Upon noticing A’chago’s interested look, G’raha smiles. “Lakeland hot springs specialty,” he explains. “Feo Ul slipped some into your retainers’ pockets.”

There’s little flowers floating in the water now, having slipped out of the vials and into the tub. A’chago lifts his leg and catches some as they float by. Already he can feel himself relaxing into the calming scent. 

“We never got to go to the hot springs, so I figured, why not make our own here?” G’raha continues, carefully removing his hair clips. Red locks fall in his eyes. 

“I’ll have to take you with me to the onsen,” A’chago says thoughtfully. “But this was a fantastic idea.”

G’raha looks at him from where he’d been busy untying his braid. “I’d like that,” he says, shaking his hair out. Then, he stands and strips nude. “Now scoot up, I want to bathe too.”

A’chago dutifully pulls himself forward in the tub until there’s enough room for G’raha to maneuver in behind him. There’s a splash of water, then the tub stills. He turns around to see G’raha in a state of pure bliss, eyes closed as the warm water and the oils work their magic.

“Why are you behind me? I want to see you,” A’chago whines, trying to twist around in the limited space he has. He ends up splashing water on the floor. G’raha’s eyes flash open and he seizes A’chago round the bicep, right where it’s sore. A’chago hisses. 

“Sorry,” G’raha murmurs. “But turn back around. I’m going to wash your hair, twelve know you can’t be trusted to do a good job of it on your own,” he finishes with a smirk. A’chago rolls his eyes but does as he’s told. G’raha pours water over his hair, taking care to avoid his ears. 

There’s the pop of another vial being uncorked, then G’raha’s soapy hands are buried in A’chago’s hair, massaging his scalp. It feels _heavenly._ He leans back into the touch. For a while, it’s completely silent as G’raha works his fingers through A’chago’s hair, then a low, rumbling purr fills the room. 

G’raha presses a kiss to A’chago’s shoulder, then wraps one hand around the silky shell of his ear and soaps it up, stroking up and down before giving the same treatment to the other ear. He pours more water to rinse it all off, using his hands to comb through and make sure the shampoo is completely gone. A’chago shuts his eyes so he doesn’t get soap in them, but also so he can melt into the sensation more fully. 

After finishing with his hair, G’raha coats his hands with body soap and sets to work massaging his shoulders. His hands are rough and calloused despite four years of tower stasis, and they apply the perfect amount of pressure to his sore muscles. A’chago purrs louder. 

Those hands briefly touch the tip of the scar that crosses his torso from collar to hip and still. A’chago opens his eyes. When he looks back over his shoulder, G’raha’s got that _look_ on his face again. 

A’chago puts on of his hands over the one that brushed his scar. “I’m here,” he promises G’raha. “It’s okay.”

G’raha looks like he wants to argue that, but then his face smoothes out and he continues his work, pausing only long enough to kiss the very tip of that scar. An unspoken apology. 

The light from the window has long gone dark by the time they finish, emerging pruny and fresh from tepid water. The only light is the candles that G’raha had lit earlier to set the mood. A’chago feels boneless and utterly relaxed, G’raha looks much the same. They towel each other off in silence, the comfortable kind where the entire world feels a little far away and the only thing that exists is this very moment in this very room, for eternity. 

“Can I kiss you _now?_ ” A’chago asks, yawning. He rubs a hand over his eyes. 

“You’re half asleep,” G’raha mumbles, swaying. He sags against A’chago and wraps an arm around his waist loosely. “I’m half asleep.”

A’chago stumbles into the bed still naked, dragging G’raha with him. “Raha,” he whines. “Wanna kiss.”

G’raha groans, but drags himself up to A’chago’s mouth and pecks him, resting his body weight on A’chago’s chest. “There. Now can we sleep?”

A’chago’s hands trail down G’raha’s back until they find his tail and he strokes it gently. “Yeah, ok,” he acquiesces. G’raha reaches under them and yanks the blankets over their heads, then goes out like a light on A’chago’s chest. 

He continues stroking G’raha’s tail, but it’s more of an instinct than a conscious decision. He breathes in deeply. They both smell exactly the same now. Not quite all him, or all G’raha-something new. It makes him unbelievably happy. 

Rolling over slightly so G’raha is more next to him rather than on his chest, A’chago twines their legs together and falls asleep.


	25. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after the battle with elidibus, the exarch says goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lowkey made myself cry writing this bc i had to keep referencing the cutscenes and every time the exarch looks at the player he looks so open and vulnerable and then he DIES and i know he gets to come back but he still DIES and he's literally been through so much and has lost and gained over and over and it fucks me up dude it really does
> 
> if you want more pain, i HIGHLY recommend you listen to [Palemote by SlowMeadow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MPFQ5W2apIo) because i listened to that on repeat while writing this also its a beautifully sad song its also on spotify

Once upon a time, G’raha Tia’s most fervent wish had been for the strength to save two worlds and the willpower to go through with his plans. He needed to, for all the people on the Source he’d left behind, all the people on the First he’d grown to love. That wish had driven him for over a century and he’d seen it to fruition. 

Now, his most fervent wish is the strength to say goodbye. He doesn’t doubt that he has the strength to go through with it, he knows he does, but... 

The Crystal Tower throbs around him, pulsing with aether after sealing an Ascian, leeching away at more than just the color of his hair and fur. His entire lower body and both arms have been turned crystal and it’s only spreading, the sharp sound of breaking glass fills the silence whenever he moves. Struggling, he lifts his head to watch as A’chago approaches the small, robed figure kneeling where Elidibus once stood. 

From this distance, he can’t hear what they’re saying, but he can see the moment when A’chago’s shoulders begin to shake and he hurriedly tucks his head into his elbow to hide his tears. The tiny Ascian dissipates into the crystal tower. Belatedly, G’raha spies his soul vessel, somehow unharmed despite the fearsome battle, laying where Elidibus had disappeared. Quietly, he prays that it can still function as intended and his memories are unharmed within. He fears he’s not much longer for this world. 

His grip on his staff slips and he goes toppling backward before he can stop himself. The most he can manage is to land on the old crystal arm instead of the raw, sore new one. The jolt still rips into him, setting his nerves alight with pain. He pants heavily. 

Footsteps. When he looks up, A’chago is right there in front of him, still post-battle blank but notes of concern on his face. G’raha grins wryly. 

“I concede, I may have overexerted myself,” he says raggedly. 

A’chago shakes his head slowly, looking like he wants to keep crying, but says nothing. He won’t have any words for him, not like this, he’s always stuck in some sort of fugue state after his battles, but G’raha is actually banking on it. It’ll be so much easier for the both of them if A’chago doesn’t fight what’s about to happen. 

He can feel the crystal encroach upon his waist. He doesn’t have much time left. It’s taking all his concentration to hold it at bay as it is. He tries to offer a comforting smile nonetheless. “Steady now, and listen,” he says, rolling over on his back and leaning back on his hands. “I told you before that I had a plan, and that when all is said and done I would ask a favor of you.” He spares a glance toward A’chago to make sure he’s still listening. A’chago’s still hanging onto his every word. G’raha looks away and continues. 

“We have averted the Eighth Umbral Calamity. Found a way for everyone to return to the Source, and...last but not least, we have secured the future of all the people of Norvrandt. We have won, my friend.” He makes an aborted little move to stand up, then settles back down when his body shrieks its refusal. That won’t be happening yet. 

Steeling himself, he pushes on. “So I hope you’ll forgive me this moment of selfishness. And...while I wouldn’t want you to feel obliged…”

A’chago blinks a couple times. He’s coming out of his catatonic state, which a small, vulnerable, wounded part of G’raha is immensely grateful for. While it would be easier to do this alone, he would prefer to have A’chago present by his side, even if he does try to stop him. He spends a few moments more than he would’ve liked to just staring up at him. His brown skin. His fiery golden eyes, the color of sunset amber. The freckles that spread across his cheekbones. The tattoos his twin had made him get in the corners of his eyes. The scar that cuts up his left cheek. If his plan doesn’t work, this will be the last time he ever gets to gaze upon this face. He wants to memorize it. 

He’s dying. The gravity of it all finally hits him, right as the crystal makes another attempt to swallow him whole. He’s dying, and he’ll never get to see Lyna’s soft smile again, or listen to Glynard’s belly laugh, or Moren’s rambling about their shipment of new books, or walk amongst the people of the Crystarium, or celebrate with them, weep with them, live with them...This place is his home. This is where his family is. Fear, sharp and pungent, grips his heart. He doesn’t want to die. Desperately, he looks back to A’chago, eyes darting between the other man’s. He finds nothing in those eyes but a boundless pool of love, and it gives him the strength to finish.

“Promise me you’ll take me on your next adventure. A journey. Together. That’s all I ask.” 

A’chago _does_ start crying then, and tilts his head back as he falls forward, shoulders heaving violently before his head bows. When he looks back up, he’s smiling despite himself. “I promise,” he says, weeping. “Gods, Raha...you could’ve asked me sooner!” 

G’raha smiles. When he takes his next breath, it rattles in his chest. He’s running out of time. He has to make sure that A’chago knows he doesn’t intend to abandon him. “If I were to tell you that this isn’t the end-that we will meet again-would you believe me?”

Briefly, something in him says _no, he won’t believe you. You’ve lied to him too many times before._

But A’chago only nods his head fervently, ducking his head down to kiss him as hard as he dares. G’raha leans up into it, only too conscious of the fact that this is the last time that the Exarch will ever get to kiss him. 

“Yes, of course,” A’chago says when he pulls back. “Always. Raha, I love you.” There’s a tinge of desperation in his voice, but he doesn’t say any more than that, and G’raha is grateful. 

“I love you,” he replies automatically, trying to convey everything he means with those three words and a lingering gaze. It doesn’t feel like enough. It has to be. 

A’chago hands him his soul vessel, and G’raha looks down at it, understanding. Even if G’raha isn’t confident his plan will work, A’chago has the utmost faith in him. The crystal is pulsing weakly, aether swirling around. He hesitates, but then rests his hand overtop the vessel. There’s a sense of finality that he dreads, but also the thin, bright strands of hope reflected in the crystal’s gleam. Maybe this will work. Maybe he’ll get to live. 

“Thank you,” he tells A’chago. There’s crystal layering crystal on his fingertips. It’s time. 

He pulls his hood up for the first time in weeks and grabs his staff, slowly getting to his feet. “My love. With you, my mind and memories shall travel to the ends of the world and beyond. But in this place shall my body stand unmovable.” Slowly, painfully, he shuffles to a spot he deems adequate. Right in front of the throne, he grins to himself. The last Allagan prince, standing in front of the throne. The servant of the Crystarium, at home where he belongs. 

He turns around. “May it serve as an undying promise, not only to those who looked to me for leadership, but to any soul who has known despair, that hope is everlasting.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. Flashes of memory fill his mind. The people of the First’s sorrows. Their triumphs. The very first plant they ever grew in the Hortorium. The first time Lyna managed to write her own name. His mind goes further back, to the Source, and all the people he met during his time there. Biggs III. Ironworks. The others, whose names have long since been lost to time but who’s visages fill his mind’s eye, the way they celebrated the night before sending him off to the first, the funerals they held for the ones they lost, the way they held a festival for four days straight when one of the women bore twins without any of them dying. Hope burns in his chest like a physical flame, and he aches with the weight of it. It’s a good weight. A fulfilling weight. 

A’chago comes to stand in front of him and holds out his soul vessel once more. G’raha looks at it and briefly wonders if he wants to add the memories of everything that just happened to the lot, but ultimately decides to imbue it with his most recent memories-having his soul vessel stolen, being chased out of the tower, fighting with A’chago one last, glorious time...all of it. He wants to hold onto it all. There’s so many things he wants to keep, but here, at the end of Exarch’s chapter, all he has is hope. 

It’s enough, he realizes with startling clarity. It’s enough. Peace washes over him. 

And then it’s truly over. He has nothing left to do. The crystal, which he’d been holding at bay for so long, starts to race up his body. He locks eyes with A’chago, briefly, saying one last wordless goodbye. Then, he fixes his gaze on the doors of the tower and lets this incredible feat of engineering claim him one last time. 

It’s not painful. It feels like being submerged in water, and then it’s over. 

He’s gone.


	26. When pigs fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's been a new theme to A'chago's nightmares lately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: graphic depictions of violence, gore, nightmares

A dark corridor. No lanterns. No light, save for the moon when it briefly peeks out from the clouds before retreating like a child ducking their head under thick blankets. Stone floors. Tall, floor to ceiling stained glass windows. The images warp and change if A’chago looks at them for too long. 

He can’t shake the sense that something is hunting him, which, of course, only pisses him off. Anger has ever been his initial reaction-how _dare_ anything make him feel unsafe? Him, the Warrior of Darkness? He’s a dark knight, he _thrives_ in the shadows, the deepest and darkest recesses of humanity. He’s inundated in darkness. He was born into it, tempered by it, molded by it. It belongs to _him._  
Eyes glow at him from the dark corners he can’t fully see, even with his pupils fully dilated. A’chago keeps moving, paces quickening just a tad. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he knows enough to know where he is. 

The Vault. 

Something chimes quietly in the distance. He strains to pick up on it. It sounds like...a music box? A’chago grips his sword tighter and soldiers on. If he doesn’t think about it, it can’t bother him. 

The entire corridor goes dark, so dark he can’t even see his own hands. He stops where he stands and listens closely. The music box chirps out its incessantly cheerful tone. He recognizes it as the one that Thalbi was obsessed with as a child. She’d found it in the ruins near their house in Meracydia, some hideously burned thing that, when opened, revealed a pair of tarnished wedding rings and a half-melted smiling effigy of some Meracydian goddess inlaid on the lid. It had terrified him as a child. 

Thalbi was so fucking _weird,_ though, so of course she’d taken it out of the rubble and brought it home. It played a bright, saccharine wedding march, and A’chago had woken up in the middle of the night countless times to hear it playing through the walls. 

Something flashes, bright white and impossibly close to his face. He shouts and stumbles away from it. 

Glowing, bright blue eyes and a wide, manic grin. He can’t place the features but he doesn’t have time to, adrenaline taking over and forcing his legs to backpedal until his back hits a wall. 

He’s no stranger to nightmares, but as he struggles to control his breathing, he decides that he wants _out_ of this one. He closes his eyes and counts for ten seconds. He opens them and sees that thing grinning at him from a distance. Its smile twitches, then its features turn upside down and move closer to him. It crawls toward him. 

_Nope. Nope. Nope. Fuck no,_ A’chago thinks, brandishing his sword. He slashes out best he can, but then the thing is _sprinting_ toward him, and his sword hits nothing but air, and then it opens its mouth and _screams,_ ear-splittingly loud and horrifying, and closes its needle-mouthed jaw overtop of him. 

“We meet again, beastie,” Zenos says, sounding pleased. A’chago opens his eyes to find himself on the airship landing of the Vault on a bright, sunny day-the day that Haurchefant-with Zenos staring down at him happily. Zenos twirls his katana. “Come on,” he taunts. “Dance with me.”

Without being fully aware of moving forward, A’chago takes his sword in his hand and lunges. Zenos blocks him, easily. He raises his arm to slice, and A’chago moves just fast enough to block it with his own blade. Zenos leaps backward, then rushes him. A’chago holds him in place, leaning his entire weight against Zenos’s massive bulk. Sweat pours down his neck. His hair falls in his eyes and Zenos uses his temporary blindness to crack the hilt of his katana against A’chago’s temple. 

When he regains consciousness, Zenos is sitting on him, holding his left hand close, rubbing it against his face. A’chago tries to yank it back but Zenos holds firm. “You’ve been very naughty,” Zenos says flatly. He turns A’chago’s hand over so that the palm of it faces Zenos, then he points to the ring on his fourth finger. “What is this?”

A’chago stares at it in confusion. He doesn’t own a wedding band. He’s not married. Somehow, though, he knows G’raha gave it to him. 

Zenos frowns and squeezes his hand so hard he hears bones crunch. “You gave your leash to someone else,” he muses. “Let them tie you up and keep you. Are you trying to distract yourself? Forsake the hunt?”

A’chago has no voice in his dreams, so he doesn’t bother answering, just glares at Zenos. 

“Ah, but wait,” Zenos says, smiling to himself. “Perhaps this mysterious third party can be used to _incentivize..._ ”

A’chago tries not to let anything show on his face. Zenos _can’t_ find out about G’raha. Instead he focuses on the endless blue sky, the biting cold wind, the bright glow of the sun. A dragon roars in the distance. 

Zenos’s expression sours further. “Don’t play coy,” he admonishes A’chago. Then, he smiles and leans in close. “I already know who he is.”

G’raha’s screams pierce the air, seemingly surrounding him. It sounds like he’s being tortured. A’chago’s whole body locks up against the noise. _It’s not real,_ he tells himself, eyes screwed shut. The screaming tapers off, and he relaxes. Until the begging begins. 

“No, gods, please, no more,” G’raha begs, his voice filling A’chago’s head until it’s all he can hear. “No _-stop! Please!_ ”

A’chago thrashes underneath Zenos’s weight. It’s no use. G’raha, wherever he is, starts crying, his breaths coming in ragged, heaving sobs and ringing in A’chago’s ears. Another strangled choke. A’chago fights harder. 

Zenos watches him placidly. “You’ll never get to him in time,” he tells A’chago. “Though, his connection to the tower intrigues me...such destructive force at his fingertips...do you think if we took his eyes, Garlemald would be able to use them?” 

G’raha screams once more. A’chago starts to cry in earnest, pulling at Zenos’s grip and desperately trying to buck him off. By some miracle, it works-

But when Zenos flies off of him, he flies to the center of that long strip, and Haurchefant’s-no, G’raha’s body is at his feet, two bloody caverns where his eyes used to be and his chest neatly pulled open like a living autopsy. He’s missing all four of his limbs and his tail. It’s too horrifying to comprehend. 

Zenos holds G’raha by his hair, then kicks him. G’raha gives a shuddering moan, his organs shifting around the strain of it, lungs drawing in air despite everything done to him. “He’s here,” Zenos says to G’raha, ducking his head to whisper in his ear but looking directly at A’chago. 

G’raha turns his sightless, bloody holes toward A’chago. “Chago,” he whimpers. 

The world spins violently. A’chago might have thrown up. Everything explodes. Zenos laughs. The dream fractures. 

He sits upright, gasping for breath, clutching the bedsheets in his fists, sweat pouring off his body. He’s in the Rising Stones. He’s in his bed. His eyes acclimate to the dark and make out the shapes of his desk, the door, the bookshelf G’raha brought in, the overstuffed chair, his weapons hanging on the wall. No glowing faces. No blood. 

“My love?” G’raha says sleepily, sitting up as well. A’chago can’t look at him. He doesn’t know what he’ll see. His shoulders tense when G’raha lays his hands on his back comfortingly. “Will you look at me, please?”

Slowly, A’chago turns to face him. For a second, G’raha’s eyes are shrouded in shadow and A’chago feels his heart lock up in fear, but then he shifts closer and A’chago sees moonlight reflected in those deep red eyes. A’chago hurriedly rips the blankets off of them and runs his hands over G’raha’s chest, his limbs. Everything is attached. He’s fine. A’chago pulls him to his chest in a crushing hug. 

G’raha grunts in surprise, but then he wraps his arms around A’chago tentatively. “Everything alright?” he says against A’chago’s shoulder. 

A’chago leans back and looks at him carefully, taking everything in, making sure he’s real. “Nightmare,” he mumbles. “About you.”

“About me?” G’raha smooths A’chago’s ears back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

A’chago shudders. “No. Yes. Dreamt Zenos got you.” He doesn’t say anything more than that, just shifts until he can put his head on G’raha’s chest and focus on his heartbeat.

G’raha brushes his hair soothingly, the other hand stroking up and down his scarred back. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’m safe. It’s okay.”

His voice is warm and soft, not ragged and crying for mercy. A’chago squeezes his eyes shut and listens to the rumble of it in his chest. G’raha reaches behind him and pulls the blankets up around his shoulders, then shifts down in the bed until they’re mostly laying down. Their legs intertwine. A’chago curls his hand around G’raha’s bicep. 

When he next speaks, _his_ is the voice that’s ragged and breaking. “‘M so scared,” he confesses to G’raha’s heartbeat. “Of losing you again.”

The hand in his hair stops stroking for half a beat before it resumes. “Well,” G’raha says, the tenor of his voice vibrating with the edge of a purr, “I’m not going anywhere. The day someone takes me from your side is the day pigs fly.”

Despite himself, A’chago giggles, pressing his face into G’raha’s chest to muffle the noise. His lover is spending too much time around Tataru, picking up silly euphemisms like that. After he settles down, he mulls over G’raha’s response. “But porxies fly,” he points out. 

G’raha curses above him. “Hmm. Fine. The day someone takes me from your side will be the day that sun stops rising, the birds stop singing, and time itself comes to a standstill. That's better?”

“Much,” A’chago replies sleepily. He traces a circle on G’raha’s chest. The horrible vision in his dream flashes through his mind, but A’chago is able to dismiss it. His brain loves to torment him with graphic images, it’s nothing new. This particular nightmare, though...He lifts his head and balances his chin on G’raha’s chest to look him in the eye. “I know you’ve been looking at rings with Krile,” he says softly. 

The heartbeat underneath him skips a beat. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” A’chago’s eyes flick between G’raha’s own. The other man looks flustered and he’s grinning in the odd, wry way that betrays how anxious he is. “I don’t mind,” he says hurriedly. G’raha relaxes. 

“I know we’ve never talked about it, and I promise I would never do anything without speaking to you about it beforehand,” G’raha says in a rush. “It was just...nevermind. I have no excuse.”

“Zenos got you because he knew we were together. We were, uh, married, in the dream. He saw the ring.”

G’raha’s face folds open, misery and understanding and jumping to a conclusion A’chago didn’t mean to set up. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Of course. It would be incredibly dangerous…”

A’chago reaches up to stroke his face. “Since Haurchefant...well, you know. Get one fiance killed and now I’ve gone and developed a whole complex about it.” G’raha looks like he wants to argue that, but A’chago continues. “I think I’m tired of being scared.” 

Silence. G’raha’s waiting for him. 

Taking a breath, A’chago tries to phrase what he means better. “I want this. Us. You.”

G’raha’s eyes well up with tears. “Chago, you don’t have to-”

“I _want_ to,” A’chago insists, propping himself up on his hands. “I can’t promise that I’ll be ready now, or even soon, but whenever I picture my future I picture you by my side.”

Underneath him, with his hair fanning out over the pillows, G’raha looks like an angel. He surges up to pull A’chago down, kissing him passionately. When he comes up for air, he’s babbling, “We don’t have to get bonded, we don’t need rings, we don’t have to do _anything,_ I just want to spend my life with you,” and A’chago silences him with another kiss. 

He knows that G’raha’s got a secret dream of a big wedding with all their friends and family invited, scant-numbered as they are. He himself has never had any such desires, especially considering his newly developed fear of marriage, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least _try_ to make the love of his life’s dreams come true. 

As he curls up next to G’raha to return to sleep, he thinks to himself, _maybe it wouldn’t be so bad._ They’re strong. They can and have weathered just about anything fate could put them through. He rubs his thumb over G’raha’s cheek and makes a promise to himself. 

One day he’ll spit in the face of his fears and his trauma and his nightmares and slide a ring on this man’s finger.


	27. Free Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it’s an epic tale for the ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dear discord: thank you for being an unending source of inspiration, and thank you to jukain for so graciously letting me feature your WoL!
> 
> my computer kept autocorrecting A’chago to Chicago so naturally I had to write about it.

“The Marvelous Misadventures of Chicago and TrashBag

One day, after a very long and very hard battle against the evil garleans who were simply too sexy and tall and absolute sluts for manifest destiny thinly veiled as “reclaiming their homelands”, Chicago woke up in a bed in Ishgard and immediately said “ouch, fucking shit,” because the tallest and sexiest garlean had sliced him open like an overripe pear during the battle. 

Immediately, as if summoned by his exclamation, a very tall and handsome elezen swept into the room and burst into tears at the sight of Chicago’s bandaged chest. “My friend! Your beautiful white skin marred by such an ugly wound! How can I masturbate to you now? My tears will surely swath Coerthas in ice, plentiful as they are!”

“White?” Chicago asked, confused, looking at his brown skin. But surely enough his skin lightened to a pale white, because he’s the protagonist of a japanese video game, and brown people don’t exist in japan. Chicago gasped in horror. “No! Now I have to eat potato salad and slap my thighs before standing up and say “Well” if I want to leave a conversation!” he wailed, clutching the blankets. 

The dastardly handsome Elezen didn’t hear him, too deep in his own emotions. “I have been in love with you for like four years,” he moaned. “I love you so much that I made Estick-up-his-ass carry you across the country instead of the infirmary at Rhalgr’s Reach because Ishgard has the best infirmary ever in the history of ever, so much better than the one at Rhalgr’s Reach, also you almost died because you didn’t get medical attention in time.”

Chicago kicked off the blankets. “Is Zenos dead?!”

“No but like he left,” the elezen, America, weeped. 

Chicago ran away. “Goodbye, America, please stop simping for me,” he called out behind him. “I may or may not follow the creepy man who stole my friends across the rift, idk, haven’t decided yet.”

America did not listen. He was too busy crying and looking beautiful. 

After traipsing around the world and pointedly ignoring the creepy man who stole his friends for as long as possible, Chicago finally returns to Mor Dhona and tries to fly on his chocobo but then the visage of Yoshi-P fills his mind’s eye. 

“No,” Yoshi-P says gravely. “We haven’t coded that yet. Please wait for the release of 5.3. I work 17 hour days because boys in the United States want more content and I am going as fast as I can. Please be patient.” 

“What the fuck,” Chicago says, because he’s an idiot catboy who doesn’t understand things like fourth wall breaks or simple mathematics or how to tie his shoes. Then he decides to keep going and runs all the way to Syrcus Trench because a creepy man who stole his friends told him to. 

Then he touches a little weird disk thing and leaves behind Tataru because she’s a disposable character who’s always getting left behind and isn’t valued enough and she should really unionize, or something. 

When he is finished going through the fish transportation tube of the rift, he wakes up on a really weird version of eorzea with big purple trees and a very bright sky. “Woah, this is the shit,” he says. Then he gets to exploring and dies at the hands of a very purple angry treant and lies there, rotting, very upset with himself, because his home point is in _Ul’dah,_ so he teleports back to Ul’dah then goes back to Mor Dhona and back to Syrcus Trench and touches the little disk thing all over again like some kind of much more strenuous version of Groundhog Day (1993) by Harold Ramis.

When he returns to the strange land he decides not to attack anything. He does not want to give Harold Ramis any more reason to live in his head rent free. 

He picks a direction to walk toward and sets off. He finds a campsite and a man with blue hair. “Brenodt, I love the dye job,” he says. “Werk, girl.”

“What the fuck are you saying to me,” Brenodt the Blue says. 

“Daddy chill,” Chicago replies. 

Then Brenodt the Blue gets drunk and waves him off so Chicago decides to go to the HOLY SHIT THE TOWER WHERE HIS DEAD BOYFRIEND LIVES IS HERE! Chicago runs to the tower as fast as his legs can carry him, which is very fast, because he lives a life that depends mostly on his ability to outrun mobs and yell “healers adjust” behind him as he tanks. 

A very beautiful woman does not want him to go in the tower. But then the creepy man who stole his friends appears and lets him in anyways. Chicago sticks up his middle finger at her and then feels bad because she really is quite awesome and also her voice is very nice. Also Brenodt the Blue is dead. Chicago weeps some very manly tears for him. 

The creepy man who stole his friends tells him his name is Exxon Mobil, and Chicago says “no, my name is Chicago,” which makes Exxon Mobil rub a hand over his face and say, “no, _my_ name is the Exarch.”

Exxon Mobil then gives him a very long and very boring history lesson and begs him for his dick-I mean, his help in saving the world. Chicago agrees because what else are you supposed to do when an American multinational oil and gas corporation which is most definitely in part responsible for the massive amounts of pollution currently plaguing planet earth and is also potentially a monopoly in all but name steals your friends and begs for your help to fight scary looking angels even though Christianity might not exist in this world? Wait, does that mean there’s catboy Jesus running around somewhere?

“Am I catboy jesus?” Chicago mumbles to himself.

Exxon Mobil tells Chicago to go find Alphinaud and Alisaie. They both tell him, “wow, this world sucks, but the people are very nice and hard working except for the rich ones,” and Chicago says “yeah, we knew this,” but returns to Exxon Mobil anyways and tells him what they learned which is not a whole lot besides the fact that they should bring back the guillotine and take care of their rich person problem. 

Bam! Suddenly, lightwardens! Chicago defeats the weird mutant thing and then strikes a pose as it explodes behind him but then all the gross aether goes inside of his body and he says “wow, this is really gross,” and Exxon Mobil runs up and says “I have never been more attracted to you than in this moment, please save the world with me,” and Chicago says “you’ve asked me that like three times already I already said yes!”

Then a whole bunch of other things happen that are irrelevant but the most important thing is Exxon Mobil waits until Chicago is dying before he says “hey you are actually being poisoned by light but! If I commit suicide then you won’t die :) and all your friends get to go home :)” and Chicago says “NO I have a COMPLEX about people DYING FOR ME!!” But Exxon Mobil does it anyway so Chicago says “well at least you’re not my beloved missing friend Trashbag because the only thing that I have a bigger complex about than strangers dying for me is friends dying for me.” 

A brisk wind sweeps back Exxon Mobil’s hood to reveal none other than Trashbag Tia. 

“NOOOOO WHAT THE FUCK” Chicago wails. Trashbag Tia continues to cast the spell but then he fails miserably at his one job just like he failed all his other jobs when another stupidly sexy and tall Garlean shoots him in the back. 

“This is boring,” the garlean, Emet-Welch says boredly. 

Then they go underwater and meet some fish people and Chicago saves the world by joining his body and soul with another man and shooting the manifestation of his body at the Big Bad Ascian who’s actually Emet-Welch so hard it tears a hole in the Ascian’s chest and the Ascian says “gah, fuck you,” and Chicago says “It’s not gay if you close your eyes,” but the Ascian _doesn’t_ close his eyes!!! Is he gay???????

After that Exxon Mobil comes up all beat up and battered like a thick succulent cake mix and says “sorry for lying to you and for almost dying and for making you fall in love with my sweet, sexy voice and my diplomatic nature and my huge cock.”

Chicago doesn’t want him to be sad so he calls Exxon Mobil by his true name when he says, “‘Tis good to see you awake, Trashbag.”

And then Trashbag Tia and Chicago Tia kiss very loudly and grossly and messily right in front of Ryne, who cries, then they start having sex right there on the platform so everybody else leaves as fast as they can. 

The end.”

The fast food employee, who’d been listening at first with morbid fascination, then with increasing concern, and now looked like she wished to call the psychiatric hospital, said, “Ma’am, this is a KFC (Kentucky Fried Chocobo) drive thru.”

“Well, fine, then!” the customer, a gorgeous viera with thick dark hair by the name of Timtam (©️jukain) yelled angrily, slamming her foot on the gas and peeling out of the parking lot. “You’re just not ready for the truth!” 

As she leaves, Timtam screams from the top of her lungs, “VIVA LA TRASHBAG!!” 

Her passenger, an incredibly embarrassed young Miqo’te with striking red hair and eyes, begs her to keep her voice down. They kiss merrily and speed off into the sunset, forever joined in sickness and in health, uwus and owos, until the end of time. The end. For realzies.


	28. Irenic - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not the first time, but it's their first time together, and like every new beginning, there are a couple bumps along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did it. i wrote a smut fic for the very first time ever. well, not first time ever, because i used to do it on request in middle school for my friends, but that was like, _business._  
>  this is most decidedly not business. 
> 
> thank u discord 4 the motivation! i feel like i just completed a coming of age ritual or something. am i a real fic writer now?

A’chago slams the door to his bedroom at the Rising Stones so loudly that all of Mor Dhona probably knows where he is and what he intends to do, but he doesn’t _care,_ because if he doesn’t get his pants off _right now_ the world’s going to have bigger problems than knowing he’s about to jerk off-namely, dealing with a Warrior of Light who _hasn’t_ jerked off. 

This is the first moment he’s truly had time to himself since-gods, he doesn’t even know how long. Since before the liberation of Ala Mhigo, definitely. Twelve, that’s nearly a year. He hasn’t had this in nearly a year. 

Without checking to see if the door is locked, A’chago yanks his clothes off and dives on his bed. Knowing his luck, he’ll only have about twenty minutes before someone else comes calling. _Though, knowing me, I’ll only need two,_ he laughs to himself. Then cries. In his head, of course. 

He almost does cry when he wraps his hand around his length, though. He’s so pent up that only two strokes bring him to full hardness. He twists his wrist ever so slightly on the upstroke and sees stars. 

A’chago is so caught up in his own head that he doesn’t hear the door open. He does, however, hear G’raha clear his throat. 

G’raha Tia is standing in the doorway, one hand on his hip, looking incredibly amused. “Am I interrupting?,” he asks, nodding toward A’chago’s lap. 

It takes a second for A’chago to find his voice. “Shut the damn door!” he cries, jolting up and cupping his hands over himself. 

Thankfully, G’raha does-then he saunters over to the bed, puts both hands on the mattress, and leans over so he’s in A’chago’s personal space. “Need a hand?” he smirks. 

“Need a hand-what? Raha,” A’chago says, dissolving into giggles. “That’s the best pickup line you could come up with?”

G’raha pouts. “I’m under considerable pressure. It’s not everyday one is graced with the image of their lover naked and wanting, chasing the pleasure of their own hand when they have a perfectly willing partner _right here.”_

“Oh, jealous, are you?” A’chago grins, reclining against the pillows and letting his legs fall open. “Like what you see?”

“Impossibly jealous. And I very much like what I see,” G’raha says, gazing at A’chago’s cock. Then he flicks his gaze back up to A’chago’s face. “Tell me to leave and I will.” 

“Don’t you dare leave,” he says. “Now hurry up and touch me before I start to feel stupid just laying here naked.” 

G’raha surges onto the bed and straddles his thighs, then pauses. “I didn’t actually believe I would get this far,” he admits with a faint blush. His hands hover above A’chago’s waist. “Can I-?”

“Twelve, please,” A’chago begs, shifting slightly. He gasps at the first brush of G’raha’s leather gauntlets against his skin. The fact that G’raha’s still fully clothed while he’s completely naked, pinned underneath of him, is doing very good things to his head. 

“Oh,” G’raha says softly, then runs his hands up and down A’chago’s sides. He spreads his hands over A’chago’s chest, mapping the scars there, before experimentally rubbing his thumb over A’chago’s nipple. It sends a shock of pleasure racing up A’chago’s spine. 

“Do that again,” A’chago urges, and G’raha rewards him by repeating the action. A’chago bites his knuckle to muffle himself and tries not to jerk his hips up. 

He doesn’t know what to do while G’raha explores his body. He moves his other hand awkwardly from G’raha’s bicep to his shoulder then back again, unsure of where to place it. If G’raha minds, he doesn’t say anything. 

G’raha moves to stand up, but only to divest himself of his own clothing. A’chago bites his lip and idly strokes himself while he watches. He’d gone soft, but that was rapidly becoming a non-issue. 

As he pulls his shirt over his head, G’raha notices him watching. Smirking, he takes his time with his pants, peeling them off slowly. Tease. A’chago’s cock jumps in his hand. 

Now bare, A’chago can appreciate him more fully. There’s a broadness to his younger body that had disappeared with age in the Exarch’s, enough to rival his own. His muscles are lean and firm, and-as A’chago greedily eyed his crotch-he was _very_ well endowed. 

“So? What now?” A’chago asks, grinning. He really, really, really wants G’raha inside of him-down his throat or up his ass, he doesn’t care. The thought is startling at first, but as he ruminates on it, not at all displeasing. Quite enticing, actually. 

“Bend your legs,” G’raha replies, and then settles between them when A’chago obeys. He then pulls A’chago hips up on his lap, making him let out a _very manly_ squeak of surprise. A’chago wraps his legs around his waist automatically. 

Spread out on his back like this is...a lot. A’chago props himself up on his elbows. Nervous energy thrums through him, with no small amount of arousal. He can feel G’raha pressed against his ass. 

“Well, here we are,” G’raha says, chuckling nervously. “Hello.” He gives a little wave, as if he’d seen him on the street and isn’t nestled between A’chago’s bare legs. Whatever enabled him to take control moments earlier seems to have departed, leaving only a nervous and woefully inexperienced young man in its wake. 

Seeing his partner’s nerves gives A’chago a rush of confidence. He uses his thighs to pull G’raha down on his hands and knees on top of him. “I love you,” he says fondly, then cups his jaw and kisses the living shit out of him. 

G’raha can’t move his hands without sacrificing his balance, so he lets A’chago take the lead, and take the lead he does, his tongue sliding over the seam of G’raha’s lips until they open. “Touch me,” he commands as he breaks them apart. 

He doesn’t have to ask twice. G’raha lowers himself until their hips meet, and the first sticky wet slide of them pressing against each other must be what heaven feels like. G’raha groans, low and throaty. A’chago smiles when he presses kisses against his jaw. 

Slowly, experimentally, he rolls his hips up against G’raha’s and is rewarded when the other man gasps. Emboldened, he does it again. And again. Heat builds in his belly, low and tightly coiled, leaving him clenching his abdomen as he tries to build more friction. He decides he quite desperately needs to be filled. 

“Do you-do you wanna-” A’chago can’t finish his sentence, too caught up in canting his hips up to meet G’raha when he grinds down, “Raha, do you wanna-inside?”

G’raha chokes on his next breath and shuts his eyes. There is, potentially, nothing he would like more. “I won’t last,” he says, strained. “It’ll be over in thirty seconds.” 

“Don’t care. I want you,” A’chago replies, pausing in his efforts to brush the hair off of G’raha’s sweaty face. He’s gorgeous. G’raha leans into the touch as A’chago runs his fingers over the shell of an ear. “Only if you want to, though.”

Ruby red eyes fly open and stare down at him. “Gods,” he whispers, voice heady and rough. 

“No gods, just me,” A’chago says cheekily. 

“Fuck you.”

“That’s what I’ve been _asking_ for-”

G’raha laughs, turning his head away. He leans back on his heels. “You’re insufferable. Do you have-?”

“In the drawer,” A’chago interrupts. He licks his lips and tries to quell the nervous fluttering in his belly. He hasn’t done this in...way longer than not masturbating. He wants it so badly it’s driving him mad. 

G’raha leans over to the nightstand on A’chago’s side of the bed and opens the drawer, only to find a jumble of trash and crafting materials. He sends a pointed look to A’chago, who at least has the decency to look embarrassed, before rummaging through and finding the oil. 

He holds the vial in his hands and stares at it, pausing. “I’ve never done this on anyone else before,” he admits. 

A’chago sits up and kisses his shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s basically the same. Just, go slow? It’s been a while.”

G’raha nods, then takes a deep breath. Readying himself much in the same way that he did when accepting the Scion’s offer of membership, he sets his shoulders and stares down at A’chago’s lower half with a grim, determined face. 

“Oh my gods, it’s just my ass,” A’chago says, embarrassment coloring his features. He falls back on the bed and covers his face. “Stop looking at it like that.” 

“I don’t want to _hurt_ you.” G’raha frets, pouring a copious amount of oil on his fingers. 

“You won’t, just-” he cuts off with a gasp as G’raha circles his fingers around his hole, “Just go for it.” 

G’raha rolls his eyes and does not go for it, instead electing to lean over and suck bruises into A’chago’s chest as he runs his fingers across A’chago’s perineum, then back down to encircle his hole. It feels-so much _more_ than A’chago remembers it feeling, it feels like all his nerves are hypersensitive. His thighs tremble when G’raha’s thumb brushes his balls. Taking the cue, G’raha leans back and wraps his other hand around A’chago, stroking up and down twice before slowly, carefully, edging his finger inside.

It feels so small yet so impossibly huge-gods, he’s out of practice. A’chago instinctively locks up, then forces himself to relax around G’raha. It burns, but in such a good way, and he gasps when G’raha sinks in up to his second knuckle with minimal resistance. He uncovers his face and sets his hands by his sides. He wants to see G’raha. 

G’raha’s eyes are on his task, concentrating hard. He feels A’chago’s eyes on him and meets his gaze, smiling. This, _this_ is something different. Beyond the simple physical pleasure: he gets the distinct impression that he’s being cared for, and it’s damn near addicting. 

“Gods, yes,” A’chago murmurs, hands fisting the sheets. “Ok, now do another one.”

“‘Just go slow, Raha,’” G’raha mocks him, crooking his finger until A’chago’s toes curl. “This is for my benefit, too. I’ll never fit unless I stretch you out.”

A’chago’s dick jumps. He stares at it, mortified. Betrayal of the highest degree. 

G’raha raises his eyebrows. “I’ve got one finger inside you but _that’s_ what gets you off?” he asks incredulously. 

“Shut up,” A’chago responds. He can feel the blood rush to his face. 

“No, I don’t think I will,” G’raha says haughtily. “You’re so overconfident. You want me to split you open, don’t you?”

A’chago stares at him, wide-eyed. “What happened to being afraid of hurting me?” he accuses playfully-or, as playfully as he can when he’s still clenching around G’raha’s finger. 

The finger inside of him twists, then another wiggles in beside it. The pressure is electrifying. “Oh, I’m still terrified of hurting you,” G’raha says as he twists his hand, spreads his fingers. “I have no idea what I’m doing right now.” His casual acceptance of his own inexperience is somehow sexier than any of the posturing A’chago has seen from anyone else. 

Those fingers brush against his prostate and A’chago thinks he goes blind for a second. 

“Chago?!”

“Do that again, gods, please,” A’chago says, hands scrabbling at G’raha’s shoulders. G’raha’s fingers brush against that spot again and he tilts his head back, mouth open in a silent moan. He could come like this, completely untouched, if G’raha kept going. 

“You’re so incredible,” G’raha whispers reverently. He gently pushes in a third, and this time, the burn is back full force. A’chago winces and G’raha stills. “Gods, you look lovely,” he says. 

The praise is good, sending waves of pleasure through his body, but he wants more. A’chago pushes his hips down, anything to get G’raha to start moving again. Instead, G’raha stays completely still, letting A’chago fuck himself on his fingers until he thinks he’ll come untouched. It’s so cruel. He loves it.

“Remember,” A’chago pants, “how you said you’d only last thirty seconds? If you don’t hurry the fuck up, I’m only going to last thirty seconds.” He squeezes the base of his cock as he keeps pressing down, chasing his climax. 

G’raha groans. A’chago feels his cock twitch where it’s sandwiched between his ass and G’raha’s thighs. G’raha pulls out of him slowly, and A’chago wants to scream even though he knows he only has to wait a few minutes. In his hurry G’raha upends the entire bottle of oil over his cock, dousing it fully. 

“Raha!” A’chago yelps. “You’re wasting it!”

“I’m being _prepared,_ ” G’raha grits, trying to coat himself without touching himself too much. “I’ll buy you a new one. A lot of new ones. One for-” he grips himself by the base, uses the other hand to brace on A’chago’s hip, presses the head against A’chago’s hole, “-every day of the week,” he finishes, pushing down until the tip pops in. 

G’raha does a full body shudder, then stills. A’chago stares at him in bewilderment. 

“Did you just-”

“Don’t.”

“Wow, and I thought _I_ was repressed,” he jokes. 

G’raha gives him a withering glare. 

A’chago leans up on his elbows and looks at where they’re barely connected. “Not gonna lie, I feel pretty good about myself right now,” he says, grinning proudly. He definitely feels irresistible. 

“This is humiliating,” G’raha moans. He flops down on A’chago’s chest. “You haven’t even gotten off,” he whines. 

A’chago laughs and kisses the top of G’raha’s head. “You’ve got two hands, don’t you? You better put them to good use!”

G’raha glares at him reproachfully, but complies nonetheless, sitting back up and slipping himself out. A’chago can feel his spend drip out of him. Now, _that_ he could get used to. He clenches, trying to keep it all in, and G’raha’s eyes go wide when he sees. It’s thrilling. Eliciting reactions like this from him is such a power trip. 

“Well? What are you waiting for?” A’chago asks, wiggling his hips in what he hopes is a tempting gesture. 

“You know, I’ve had enough of your talk,” G’raha says. He waits until A’chago opens his mouth to reply, then shoves three of his fingers in his hole as hard as he dares. 

The sound that gets punched out of A’chago’s chest is downright embarrassing. G’raha sets up a brutal pace, ensuring that he can’t even think straight enough to deliver a snarky comeback, shrinking his world down to just G’raha’s fingers in his ass. 

“Gods, look at you,” G’raha’s saying, but A’chago can barely focus on the words, “Stretched out and still so tight around me.” 

“Shut the _fuck_ up and fuck me harder,” A’chago snarls with a viciousness that surprises himself, grinding his hips down on G’raha’s fingers until he’s got them at the perfect angle, the one that makes him see stars. He reaches between them and tugs on his cock, trying to time it to G’raha’s thrusts. 

He comes undone in seconds, screwing his eyes shut and choking out silent little aborted moans as he arches off the bed. When he opens his eyes, it’s to G’raha looking entirely too pleased with himself for a man with spend on his face. 

“Enjoy yourself?” he asks, darting his tongue out to lick off the drops on his lips. 

A’chago repeats what he did earlier and uses his thighs to pull G’raha on top of him so he’s in kissing range. He wraps him up in a hug and kisses him deeply instead of answering. It’s slower, lazier, more irenic than frenetic. “By the end of this week I’m going to get your cock all the way inside me,” he whispers into G’raha’s ear once he finishes. 

He doesn’t get a reply, but the way G’raha’s breath catches in his throat is telling enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahah you thought this was smut but it's 90% dialogue because that's my comfort device when i'm out of my depth!


	29. Paternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected letter throws G'raha for a loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awefoapweif;ajsldf aeo im so excited about the premise of this and i might want to expand on it with its own fic-no promises though!!! but a strong maybe. perhaps.

The day the letter came was otherwise unremarkable. G’raha woke up next to the Warrior of Light, brushed his teeth, washed his face, took his breakfast with Krile while A’chago slept in, practiced his magic against Y’shtola’s pure force of will and Alisaie’s sword. It was simple. He only wishes it could have stayed that way. 

He grips the letter in his hands with both hands, crinkling the parchment. It smells like charcoal and dust, the rough white paper smudged with black marks where his mother’s tears had smeared the words. 

_Your father is not long for this world. Please come home._

At first, he didn’t believe it. He hasn’t heard from his father in years, not since he’d taken G’raha aside and asked him, not unkindly, if he’d rather leave the tribe instead of continuing to be tormented by the other children. G’raha, all of twelve summers and bitterly confused as to why his father didn’t just make the other kids _stop,_ had angrily agreed in the misguided assumption that his absence would be some form of punishment against his parents and they’d soon beg him back. An assumption that, after his first two summers away from home with nary a letter, quickly turned to ashes.

He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of abandonment since the day he realized that they weren’t going to ask him back. They truly believed him happier as an outcast, and he’d never given them any reason to think otherwise. 

Some distant, childish part of him still lashes out, insists that they should have known. He’s beyond such moral quandaries, though, has established himself and built a life he can be proud of all on his own. Nothing he has accomplished could have been done without first being sent away. 

Here they were asking him to come back. And with his father on his deathbed no less. 

“Raha?” Krile asks, laying her small hand on his arm. G’raha looks away from the letter and turns to her. Her expression is open, sympathetic, like she already knows the contents. If she hasn’t outgrown her habit of reading his mail, she might. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

It’s something she used to tell him all the time in their days at the Studium, whenever he was working himself to the bone to prove his worth against the yalmstick of other students who had unkind words about his heritage, his ability, his knowledge, or whatever else they decided to mock on any given day. 

But what _does_ he want to do? The thought of returning to Ilsabard, to the G tribe, sits uncomfortably in his stomach. The thought of _not_ returning makes his heart ache. He doesn’t hate his father enough to deny the man his dying wish, or at all, truthfully. It’s just-

“Complicated,” he says, folding the letter neatly in half. “It’s complicated. I’m not sure I know what I want.” 

Krile nods knowingly and gently pats the hand holding his letter. “Do any of us know what we want?” she asks. “Perhaps the most we can do is fumble along until we find something that feels right.”

He hums thoughtfully, tapping the folded letter against the table. Krile pats his arm once more, then leaves him to think. She knows he thinks clearest when he’s alone. 

Or is that yet another thing he can attribute to his childhood? Does he genuinely prefer to be alone, or did he simply spend so much time being lonely that he lied to himself and claimed to enjoy it? 

Between growing up and spending a century in almost total isolation he’s spent an awful lot of time on his own. 

So should he not feel encouraged to choose the option that fosters connection? Should he not want to rekindle his relationship with his family? Here is an olive branch, and he, like the dove, has been given the option to either take it or scorn it. Would taking it mean that part of him is still desperate for acceptance from those who’ve made it clear they don’t want him? Would scorning it mean they were right to send him away at all? 

He does wish to see his father. If only to look upon the man who sired him and tell him he managed to make a good life for himself, entirely on his own terms, without his parents. If his mother speaks true, this may be the last time he ever gets the chance to do so. 

Someone drops a pan in the kitchen and it clatters to the ground, making him jump. When he turns in his seat, A’chago is standing with his hands on his hips and looking disappointedly at the pan on the floor. 

G’raha gets out of his seat and goes over to help. He bends at the waist to pick up the pan and hands it back to A’chago. “Lo, the Warrior has returned to the land of the living,” he murmurs. 

A’chago blocks out the light with one hand but cracks a smile nonetheless. “‘Morning,” he grunts, voice croaky. “Unfortunately.”

He sets the pan on the stovetop and fetches two eggs from the fridge, wordlessly holding up another pair above his head to G’raha. 

“I already ate with Krile,” G’raha answers him, leaning against the countertop. “During the true hours of morning. Like any seeker worth his salt.” 

A’chago grunts and shuffles over to the pan. He sets the eggs down beside the stove and puts a slice of butter in the pan, lighting the stove underneath. “‘M mixed,” he says. “Dunno how much. Enough to loathe mornings.” 

He hadn’t known that, but it would explain a lot: the length of his tail, the tiny hint of fangs in his mouth. G’raha wonders what A’chago’s childhood must have been like. He only knows bits and pieces, like he has a twin sister named Mesca and his older sister was a professor at Sharlyan-the man’s more secretive than _him_ when it comes to his past. Did he get along with the children in his tribe? Did he feel loved by his family? What made him come to Eorzea?

Does he also know the weight of abandonment?

“What are they like? Your parents?” he asks, carefully trying to extract a story from his partner. 

A’chago swirls the butter around in the pan. “Good people. Real good. They didn’t always do right by us kids, but they tried their best.” 

Something like kinship flares in G’raha’s chest.

“They love me. Support me in whatever I want to do. Even when I was being an utter terror, they always stood by my side.”

The little flame goes out. A’chago didn’t grow up like him. While part of him is grateful, the rest of him feels even more hopelessly alone. How is it that even surrounded by a room full of people, G’raha always manages to feel lonely?

“I get the feeling that this isn’t about me,” A’chago continues, cracking the eggs and dumping them in the pan. “What did you get in the mail?”

G’raha looks at the letter folded between his index and middle finger. The rest of the room seems to bend around it, suddenly, like it’s enchanted. “A letter from my mother,” he replies tonelessly. 

Somehow, with that uncanny perceptiveness of his, A’chago seems to understand the weight of his words. He merely hums and flips his omelette, waiting for G’raha to continue. 

The thought of continuing seems monumental. But he’s never shied from a challenge before. “She wants me to return to Ilsabard. My father’s dying.” The words sound flat in his voice, like he’s talking about the weather. 

“It’s going to be difficult to get there, with the travel ban,” A’chago comments. He pokes at the omelette and it sizzles. 

“I’m not going.”

He’s expecting A’chago to fight him, convince him to go, tell him it’s his _father,_ of course he needs to go back-instead, A’chago slides the omelette onto his plate and shrugs. “Okay,” he says.

The apathy of it all suddenly strikes him. Here he is, having quite possibly the greatest conundrum of his second chance at life, and all A’chago can think to say is ‘okay’? A'chago Tia is the chattiest man alive, where are his words now?

“That’s all you have to say?” he demands, following A’chago as he goes to sit at the table. “Nothing else? Can you even _look_ at me?”

A’chago sets his fork and knife down and looks G’raha in the eye, then gestures for him to sit as well. “This is your decision,” he says once G’raha’s seated. “I’ll support you in whatever you choose. Do you want me to convince you to go?”

Does he? G’raha’s stomach turns. The sulfuric scent of the eggs is nauseating. He doesn’t know how A’chago can stand them. 

He doesn’t want to go. He desperately does. Gods, he never had to make these kinds of decisions as the Exarch! There were plenty of difficult calls, but those were never so deeply personal. Then, he had a job to do: bring A’chago over to save the world, then die. That was _it._ His personal desires didn’t matter. Everything else was merely a consequence. 

A’chago reaches out and covers his hand with one of his own. “Raha. Should I get Krile?”

“No,” G’raha snaps, drawing his hand back. Krile wouldn’t understand. A’chago couldn’t understand. Nobody did. He’d have to do this alone. 

“You’re getting in your head again. Quit it. Talk to me,” A’chago says, pushing his plate aside to give G’raha his full attention. “Raha, what’s going on?”

Irritation made his tail bristle, but he didn’t want to be needlessly cruel by raising his voice or snapping at him again. This was his own issue, he’d deal with it alone. He settles for telling a half-truth. “I’m a little conflicted, but rest assured, it’s none of your concern.”

“No more secrets, Raha, don’t give me that publicity answer.”

By the gods, he was infuriating. Nobody else could see through his facades except for Krile. The thought of the two of them teaming up against him made his jaw twitch. He’d never get a moment’s peace again. 

He knows he needs to be vulnerable. It’s the most painful path, but it’ll also be the most rewarding. It’s just so godsdamned difficult. 

With startling clarity, he knows what he has to do. The realization washes over him like a spell. The answer has been staring him in the face this entire time. 

A’chago smiles. “Figure it out? Care to share with the class?”

G’raha leans back in his chair. Krile was telling the truth, he just needed to fumble around until he found something that felt right. He answers A’chago’s question with one of his own. “Will you come with me to Ilsabard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> g'raha, vibing, enjoying life as a scion: ay it's ya boy mario coming at you with a whole heaping spaghetti plate of informacione  
> g'raha's mother: hello mario. 
> 
> also!!! i would like to say that i know everyone's families are different and im not encouraging anyone to make contact with their family members if they don't want to. if you need to go 100% no-contact for the sake of your own mental well being and/or physical safety, PLEASE DO!


	30. Splinter - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more porn. that's it. that's all :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE'RE DONE, FOLKS!!! aaaa this challenge has been wonderful, I feel like I've grown a LOT as a writer and even though this entry was super duper rushed and i had to cut it off earlier than I would've liked because of deadlines, I'm pretty happy with it. 
> 
> thank you to everyone who made it this far! you guys mean the WORLD to me :'OO

G’raha has no idea what he was doing, if he was being completely honest. He’d tangled in the sheets a few times in his youth, with both men and women, but absolutely _nothing_ could have prepared him for bedding the Warrior of Light. 

He never thought he’d even be able to, yet here he is, situated between the man’s thighs, staring down at his dick like it’s going to bite him. If A’chago’s behavior thus far has been any indication, he’s a little hesitant that it might. 

A’chago throws his head back and whines, grinding himself up and down G’raha’s length impatiently. He looks gorgeous, the long line of his throat meeting the square corner of his jaw, the way the sweat on his skin glistens. G’raha just wants to love him gently, tenderly, maybe a few bites to spice things up. 

When he’d lamented about his desires to Krile, she’d laughed and called him woefully vanilla. 

A’chago is woefully not. A’chago had all but yanked him inside their bedroom at the Rising Stones, bit his throat hard enough to leave a mark, and asked him to make it _hurt._ He doesn’t want to hurt him! He doesn’t even know what he’s _doing._

As if sensing his hesitation, A’chago stops chasing his own pleasure and sits up, gently cupping his face in his hands. “Hey,” he says. “Are we on the same page?”

G’raha wishes he was. He wants to be. He wants to make this good for A’chago. He’s so out of his depth, though-what if he can’t perform to A’chago’s standards? Would he leave? Find another lover more suited to his needs? Something splinters inside of him. Embarrassingly, he feels a hot burning behind his nose. He bites his lip to keep it at bay. 

“Woah, woah, hey,” A’chago says, voice tinged with concern. He shifts so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with G’raha standing between his legs. “Are you okay? How can I help?”

“Can we just-slow down?” G’raha asks, his own voice cracking halfway through as he tries to keep composure. He doesn’t want to be an instrument of-of _pain._ He doesn’t want to hurt anybody. He especially doesn’t want to hurt A’chago, who he thinks he might love more than he’s loved anyone in his entire life. But on the other side, he loves the rush of power he feels whenever A’chago defers to him, even outside of sex, and it makes him feel good to know that his partner is feeling good, but he can’t shake the cloying feeling of guilt. 

“Of course,” A’chago answers easily, standing up. “Can I hug you?”

G’raha nods and falls into his arms. He’s warm, safe, and most importantly, still here. He hasn’t left. 

They stay like that for a long time, A’chago gently running his hands over G’raha’s back while G’raha holds on for dear life. He ducks his face into A’chago’s neck and breathes in the comforting scent of him. After a while, he feels steadier. Less like he’s going to shatter to pieces if so much as a stiff breeze blows by. 

“Raha, I need to apologize,” A’chago speaks, still rubbing G’raha’s back. G’raha stills. “There’s etiquette to these kinds of things, and I should have sat you down and talked to you beforehand about-well, everything.”

He says it in a way that makes G’raha feel inexperienced, which he _is,_ but it’s still embarrassing. The most clandestine thing he’s ever done was receive a hurried blowjob in an abandoned classroom back in Sharlyan. Not for the first time, he misses how much control he had as the Exarch. Here, in this body, with all it’s earthly limitations, he feels...weak. Lesser. It’s ridiculous. He has the memories of being the Exarch-he _is_ the Exarch-but it feels so far away. Without the Tower to fall back on he’s acutely aware of just how frustratingly normal he’s become. 

“We can talk now,” he says in response to A’chago’s statement. His voice is only a tad petulant. He steps back to look at A’chago, hands loosely clasped around the other man’s waist. “I’m a very fast learner.”

His quip earns him a smile, and A’chago brings his hands around to rest on G’raha’s chest. “There’s no time quite like the present,” he says, looking down. When he meets G’raha’s gaze again, he smiles confidently. “Well, then. First things first, how much do you know about BDSM?”

For the next bell or so, A’chago piles him with enough information to overwhelm even the most capable of scholars. There’s so many new terms floating around in his head-like A’chago is a self-described switch with a penchant for being a brat (this he’d gathered), an intense hatred of bondage (good to know), and a _strong_ interest in gunplay (extremely terrifying). He learns about hard limits and soft limits, and safewords and safety. He learns about subdrop and topdrop and aftercare, and sits through a quarter bell lecture on the importance of consent. By the end of it, G’raha feels much more confident, and no small amount of excitement. He’s always been a hands-on kind of learner. 

A’chago notices the look on his face. “Slow down, tough guy,” he says. “We’re not going to do a scene right now. If you’re still up for it, tonight is all about taking care of you.”

He grabs his wrist nervously. “I don’t need to...do any of what you mentioned, do I? We can keep the guns in your armory?” 

A’chago laughs. “The only thing you need to do is tell me what you want me to do. This is _your_ night, Raha.” 

His dick twitches back to life. This could be interesting. He likes the sound of this. “What’s your, uh, word?” he asks ineloquently. 

A’chago taps his finger to his chin as he thinks. “Hm. La Noscea? And if I can’t speak, I’ll do two taps for ‘back off’, three for ‘get the fuck off’.”

G’raha will never be able to think of the region the same way again, but he shrugs his assent. Now, though, he was faced with a dilemma: what should he have A’chago do first?

A’chago merely waits, standing with one hand cocked on his hip, the other absentmindedly tapping his thigh. They’re both still naked, and have long since gone soft-he wants that fixed immediately.

“Get on the bed,” he commands, though it sounds more like a question. “I mean. Get on the bed,” he tries again, steadying his voice and lowering the inflection. A’chago’s ears flick, but he complies without a word. He sits with his feet tucked under him, hands folded in his lap. “Lean back. Touch yourself.”

A’chago gives him an intrigued smirk before languidly stretching, lifting his arms above his head and showing off the planes of his muscles before resting against the pillows and taking his cock in his hand. He just holds it. 

He’s playing a game, G’raha realizes. He’s not back talking, or outwardly disobeying him, but he intends to make G’raha work for his submission. He’s such a-a _brat,_ G’raha realizes. 

Well. Two could play at that game. G’raha decides to change tactics. He crawls on top of A’chago until he’s straddling his chest, then brings his hands so they can rest on his waist. His length, still mostly soft, rests on A’chago’s lips. A bead of precum wets them. Neither of them move. 

“Take me into your mouth,” G’raha orders, nudging himself against A’chago’s lips until they finally open for him. “I think it’s hardly worth saying, but please be mindful of your teeth.”

A’chago obeys, slipping the head of G’raha’s cock into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the tip, lapping at the slit before pressing up against the bottom. G’raha groans in pleasure, inching forward. A’chago stays still as he pushes in, all the way until he hits the back of his throat and then dips into his throat. 

G’raha’s eyes go wide. He’s never gone this deep before. He’s just learning that A’chago doesn’t have a gag reflex. A’chago just stares up at him innocently, lips wrapped around his cock, and then the corners of his eyes quirk up and he swallows. 

It feels-it feels-G’raha’s words escape him, unable to stop watching as A’chago hollows his cheeks and sucks, swallowing him down again as if he wasn’t currently buried to the hilt. His throat squeezes around him. The sensation is incredible. 

If he wasn’t hard before, he’s achingly hard now. A’chago taps him on the thigh twice, not urgently but not quite un-urgently either, and G’raha remembers very quickly how impossible it is to breathe with a dick down one’s throat. He pulls back immediately, sliding out of A’chago’s mouth with a long string of drool still connecting them. 

A’chago wipes his mouth and grins. “If you let me up I can really blow you,” he offers. 

G’raha considers it. “No,” he says. “I think I’m fine right here.” Then he plunges back into that wet heat, so fast that A’chago has to scramble to keep up. He thrusts shallowly, taking care not to go too deep, but it’s a difficult task to stay concentrated on. When the tight coil of heat in his belly becomes blazing, he pulls back out again. 

A’chago’s lips are red and swollen. He’s beautiful. “Are you still doing okay?” G’raha asks, and A’chago gives him a thumbs-up. 

G’raha moves off his chest and resettles himself between A’chago’s legs. “Open up,” he demands, nudging one of his thighs. A’chago complies willingly, and G’raha comes face to face with the largest plug he’s ever seen in real life. 

He doesn’t do anything but stare at it slack-jawed. A’chago shifts above him. 

“I...may have been prepared for tonight,” A’chago admits bashfully. G’raha watches with rapt attention as the visible skin around the dark plastic flutters weakly. Unable to control himself, or perhaps unwilling to, G’raha reaches out and traces where the plug disappears into A’chago’s body. 

A sharp intake of breath above him. His skin is soft and wet down here, and stretched obscenely around a plug that’s-G’raha makes a fist to check-nearly as big as his fist, by the _gods._ “Have you been walking around like this all day?” he asks, voice hushed in a reverent whisper. 

“For the past two bells or so,” A’chago replies shakily. “It was too hard to walk so I had to stay seated. Alisaie thought I was injured.” 

G’raha does remember, now. A’chago had been cross-legged in a chair, sweating just slightly and jumping every time he shifted. He’d passed it off as fatigue from the day before. “Were you thinking about me?” he asks. He tugs on the plug gently, and it flares even wider further up. The thought of A’chago, holding conversation with the Scions, with _him,_ while simultaneously holding _this_ inside of him is sending jolts of pleasure straight to G’raha’s dick. 

“Yes,” A’chago gasps, tilting his hips just slightly as G’raha pushes the plug back in, mesmerized by how easily he takes it, how loose he’s gotten in such a short time. “Was thinking about-last time, when you said you’d stretch me out-”

G’raha remembers that, too, and remembers just how turned on A’chago had looked as soon as he’d said it. He pulls the plug out so that A’chago is impaled on the widest part of it, his thighs shaking and breaths catching as G’raha twists it back inside. 

“I think you’ve done more than stretch yourself out,” he murmurs. “Look at you. You’re so loose if I tried to fuck you I’d just fall out.”

A’chago gasps, his hips jerking. He stares down at G’raha between his legs, eyes glazed over. “Promise?” he asks cheekily. 

It’s all the convincing G’raha needs. He tugs the plug out, taking care not to go too rough, and when it finally slips out of him there’s enough lube left inside that he’s confident he won’t need to add any more. Briefly, out of academic curiosity and nothing else, he holds the plug next to his own length for comparison. Twelve, he had it wrong-this isn’t a plug, this is a dildo. it’s slightly wider and almost as long as his own, but the similarities between them are unmistakable. He looks back at A’chago’s body, and, oh, Twelve, he’s _gaping._ He hooks one of his thumbs on A’chago’s rim and pulls, watching in total fascination as A’chago weakly tries to clench down against him as he spreads him open. 

“You were walking around with a dick stuffed inside of you, pretending it was me the whole night,’ G’raha accuses. 

“Maybe,” A’chago whimpers, voice breaking at the end when G’raha releases his hole. “Please, Raha, get on with it, I’ve been so _good,_ ”

G’raha doesn’t even bother pointing out that A’chago was supposed to be letting him call the shots. He’s too consumed in lining himself up and sliding home to the sound of A’chago crying out his name. 

It’s going to be a long, _long,_ wonderful night.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A'chago slips away to get some air, and Thancred starts a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: abusive relationship, implied domestic violence, implied physical abuse, implied/mentioned emotional abuse, implied/mentioned sexual abuse, gaslighting/manipulation

A’chago exhaled slowly, watching his breath puff out in a fog. He cradled his head with his hands as he tried to control his breathing. Nausea rolled in his stomach, and ever so often his throat would try and regurgitate his dinner-something he was doing his utmost to avoid. He shivered. 

Out here, on the balcony atop Rowena’s workshop, he could feasibly snatch a few moments of peace to himself before returning to his room. His bed. His lover. He swallowed roughly, tasting bile at the back of his throat. 

Ilberd had wanted… _more,_ tonight. Wasn’t satisfied with a kiss or a blowjob. A’chago clenched his legs together under the table and hissed at the ache. He knew, theoretically, that it was his job to keep his partner happy, learned that lesson and the consequences of disobeying it nearly a decade ago, but…

But nothing, he told himself firmly. You love him. You wanted this. It’s true. Ilberd is a wonderful partner; he’s brave and kind and ruggedly handsome and he’s always looking out for A’chago, and it felt so nice to be protected instead of the one doing the protecting. He loves him. He loves him. It’s such a small price to pay in exchange for love. 

“Thought I saw somebody scurry by out here,” Thancred interrupted, voice echoing from where he’s leaned carefully against the doorframe. A’chago lifted his head to make eye contact. The other man had his arms crossed over his chest, and bags under his eyes dark enough to rival A’chago’s own. 

“You shouldn’t be out here,” A’chago said instead of a greeting. “If Ilberd finds out, he’ll be jealous.”

Thancred frowned. “Then Ilberd won’t find out,” he said carefully, after a moment’s hesitation. It was too weighted to be the lighthearted statement A’chago expected it was meant to be. Thancred walked toward him and sat down in a neighboring chair. “Why are you up? You look like shit.”

A’chago rubbed his arms and looked toward the Rising Stones. “Couldn’t sleep,” he answered honestly. 

“I’m familiar with that one.”

Silence stretched on between them. Above them, the stars shone dimly. They always shone dimly. A’chago held himself apart from Thancred, hyper-aware of how close they were and who might stumble upon them. 

“How are...things?” Thancred asked awkwardly. “With Ilberd.”

“Fine.”

Thancred paused. “You’re bruised. ‘Round your wrist.” He nodded toward the wrist in question, and A’chago tucked it away out of sight. 

“Garlean,” he said, keeping his voice monotone.

“It’s always a bloody Garlean,” Thancred snapped. A’chago flinched before he could stop himself. “Shit, I-fuck, A’chago. We both know you’re not getting roughed up by a Garlean.”

A’chago doesn’t reply. He stared off into the distance, pointedly ignoring Thancred. If he kept this up enough, maybe Thancred would take the hint and leave. 

The quiet hung in the air, heavy and tense. “A’chago-”

“I know what you’re going to say, so don’t,” A’chago interrupted him. “Ilberd would never hurt me. You don’t know him like I do.” Nobody knew Ilberd like him. Everyone else saw just another hopeless refugee ranting about liberation when they looked at him, but A’chago knew the truth. Ilberd was brave, and good, and more than just being hopeful, he was determined enough to make his dreams a reality. A’chago counted himself lucky to even be noticed by the man at all. 

Thancred, especially, had expressed a clear dislike of Ilberd from the beginning. He never stayed in the same room as him, and had encouraged A’chago to steer clear himself. It was just like what Ilberd said: even the Scions judged Ilberd based on his background, not by his character. 

“Why is it that the first time I’m happy, I find you trying to tear me down?” A’chago whispered into the night. He almost expected Thancred didn’t hear him, but the other man scoffed loudly. 

“Oh, that’s rich, isn’t it? That’s real fucking rich. _I’m_ the one trying to tear down your happiness.” Thancred stood abruptly, causing the chair to scrape noisily against the stone floor. “Terribly sorry for being concerned when my friend’s _happiness_ involves him getting fucking abused!” 

A’chago twisted around to face Thancred. “Fuck you,” he spat. “I’m not being _fucking_ abused.”

Thancred threw up his hands. “Fuck me, then!” he shouted. “Fuck!” He kicked the chair over, then stormed away. 

A’chago took a shaky, furious breath. How dare Thancred come up and insert himself into A’chago’s relationship like he had any right to? The-the audacity! And to accuse Ilberd of being some kind of _monster,_ well, he was just wrong. Ilberd was a goddamn saint. He didn’t deserve this kind of slander, especially not from someone A’chago considered a close friend. 

Ilberd was right, he realized. Eorzeans were so quick to judge Ala Mhigans based on completely arbitrary stereotypes. He never expected the Scions to be so prejudiced, but he supposed that he shouldn’t have assumed. 

A’chago found himself wandering back into the Rising Stones, back to the room he shared with Ilberd. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest when he realized that Ilberd was awake and waiting for him in the dark. 

“Twelve, babe,” he gasped. “You scared me.”

“Where were you?” Ilberd asked in a flat voice. He sat up and leaned against the headboard. “I saw you leave an hour ago.”

A’chago stripped off his clothes and slid under the blankets. “Went for a walk,” he mumbled. Ilberd pulled him close to his chest and he snuggled in. “Had an enlightening talk with Thancred.”

The arm across A’chago’s shoulders tensed just slightly, aggravating an old bruise. “What about?”

A’chago yawned and nuzzled against Ilberd’s chest. “He’s a bigot. He doesn’t think we’re good together. You were right.”

The arm resumed stroking his back. “I’m sorry you had to witness that of your friend,” Ilberd murmured. “People like us-the other, the outsiders, we just have a sense for these kinds of things. And we have to stick together, or else they’ll do everything they can to tear us apart. You understand?”

A’chago’s tail thumped happily against the mattress. “Yeah,” he smiled, tilting his head back to look Ilberd in the eyes. “We gotta stick together. You and me against the world.”

Ilberd smiled back at him, sharp and exhilarating. “You and me forever,” he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip in pieces bby


	32. Haurchefant/A'chago - E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a'chago teases haurchefant a little too much one night, with well-anticipated consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so fucking stressed about the election so i'm coping by writing porn. obviously. here, take 2.5k words of unedited, un-beta'd porn written in roughly two hours <3

Haurchefant had been _very_ clear: this wasn’t a super important dinner, but it was important enough, and he expected A’chago to be on his best behavior. He’d said as much, standing in front of the floor-to-cieling mirror in their bedroom, adjusting his cufflinks. 

“Please behave yourself tonight,” he’d said, glancing up at A’chago’s reflection in the mirror. A’chago had been sitting on the bed, already dressed up. He’d made a face and promised nothing. 

Now, sandwiched between Artoirel and Emmanellain halfway through a dreadfully boring dinner, it was time to make good on that lack of a promise. The simple truth of the matter was that Haurchefant had been _busy,_ and A’chago hasn’t gotten him to himself in at least a fortnight. It was unconscionably cruel. Unforgivably terrible. A’chago was _repressed,_ damnit!

Haurchefant caught his eye from across the table, making eye contact over the rim of his wine glass. One silver eyebrow arched, a clear warning. At the head of the table, one of Count Edmont’s political allies stumbled through a story about his war days. 

A’chago reached for his own glass-wine, which he’d procured and poured himself-and jostled it, splashing it down the side. He held eye contact with Haurchefant as he darted the tip of his tongue out to lap at the stray bead that slid down the length of the glass. 

The man’s ears turned pink at the tips and he narrowed his eyes. _Watch yourself,_ he seemed to be saying. What a shame, A’chago had always been such a terrible listener.

At the head of the table, Count Edmont forced out a polite laugh. Artoirel made a quip that sent their guest into great, heaving, gasping laughter. A’chago plotted his next move. 

Glancing toward them to ensure he wasn’t in danger of being caught, he speared a baby carrot on his fork and wrapped his lips around it. When Haurchefant’s eyes widened in surprise, A’chago hollowed out his cheeks and sucked at the tip. 

He really should’ve been expecting the sharp pain that bloomed across his shin when Haurchefant kicked him under the table. It didn’t stop him from choking on the carrot in surprise, though, and the entire table quieted to stare at him. 

“I apologize,” A’chago said quickly, thumping his chest. “I got a little distracted. Bit off more than I could chew.” He looked at Haurchefant and winked. 

The glare the other man was giving him would’ve sent lesser men screaming into the night. Instead, excitement fluttered in his belly. That dark look could mean a lot of things-hopefully, gods be good, it meant that _A’chago_ would be screaming into the night. 

“I think I ought to excuse myself,” ‘A’chago added, smiling apologetically at Count Edmont. “I don’t feel too well.” 

Count Edmont opened his mouth to speak, but Haurchefant beat him to it. “I’ll escort him to his rooms,” he said, setting his glass down. 

“Are you quite certain? Very well, then. Master Tia, I do hope you’ll feel better by the morrow,” Count Edmont said blithely. Emmanellain burst into a fit of giggles. 

Haurchefant stood up from the table and walked around to A’chago’s side, offering his arm. A’chago took it with a smile, and they left the dining room. 

As soon as they were out of earshot, Haurchefant slid his hands under A’chago’s thighs and pinned him to the stone wall with enough force to make him breathless. “What in the Fury’s name was _that_ spectacle, my dear?” he hissed against the shell of A’chago’s ear. 

A’chago moaned behind his teeth, tilting his hips up into Haurchefant’s. “Was I misbehaving?” he asked cheekily. He slung his arms around Haurchefant’s neck and grinned. 

When Haurchefant pulled back, his expression was dark. It was thrilling. A’chago bit his lip against the electric current running down his spine. “Misbehaving doesn’t cover the half of it,” Haurchefant muttered. 

“Are you going to punish me?”

“Do you deserve it?”

A’chago made a face, but Haurchefant looked deadly serious. “What do you mean?” A’chago asked, letting the end of his sentence hang in the air with a breathless whine. “I’ve been bad. _I_ think I should be punished.” He locked his ankles around Haurchefant’s back and rested his head against the wall, contemplating. “I mean, no, don’t punish me. Oh, no, anything but that…”

Haurchefant rolled his eyes and peeled him off the wall, carrying him the rest of the way to their room. He threw A’chago on the bed, roughly, then locked the door behind them. A’chago watched with a smirk on his face as Haurchefant loosened his tie and laid his coat over the back of the chair at the desk. He began to undo his own tie, too, but Haurchefant shot him a glare. 

“Don’t move,” he ordered. A’chago’s hands fell back down to his sides. 

Haurchefant leaned against the desk, staring him down with a calculating gaze. A’chago squirmed under the weight of it. He wanted Haurchefant’s hands, mouth, _anything._ He didn’t want to wait any longer. He didn’t dare disobey a direct order. 

Finally, Haurchefant moved. He walked up to the edge of the bed, reaching out and wrapping A’chago’s tie around his fist. A’chago’s eyes darted between Haurchefant’s fist and his face, but the man was completely unreadable. Gods, that only made it better. 

Haurchefant used his other hand to run the pad of his thumb along A’chago’s bottom lip, using featherlight pressure. A’chago’s eyes fluttered closed, and then Haurchefant yanked him to his feet by his tie. 

A’chago braced himself with his palms flat against the planes of Haurchefant’s stomach, and _still_ Haurchefant pulled, until he was on his tiptoes just to catch a breath. He let his tongue fall out of his mouth as he panted, following the pull of that fist in hopes of relief. 

“Look at you,” Haurchefant breathed, reverent. “Well. Since you’re begging so nicely.”

Haurchefant let him fall back on the bed on his ass when he released his grip. A’chago barely had time to situate himself before Haurchefant was on top of him, pinning him down, kissing him fiercely. He deftly worked A’chago’s shirt open as he mouthed at his jaw, nimble fingers undoing the buttons with ease. As soon as his shirt opened, Haurchefant splayed his large hands over A’chago’s chest. His fingertips brushed his collarbone and his palms rested heavily on his nipples. 

A’chago moaned into Haurchefant’s mouth, torn between pushing his chest into Haurchefant’s grip or his hips up into Haurchefant’s weight. He settled for writhing, hoping beyond hope that the other would _do_ something besides kiss him and hold him down. 

Haurchefant moved quickly enough, breaking the kiss and shifting himself until he was straddling A’chago’s hips. His face was red, his lips were redder, and his eyes were so dark that A’chago could only see the barest sliver of a blue ring. “You are the very picture of temptation,” Haurchefant murmured, kneading A’chago’s chest experimentally. 

A’chago wondered what he must look like, pinned under Haurchefant, splayed open on his back, hands fisting the sheets above his head, lips kiss-red and puffy. He opened his mouth to beg for more, but words failed him. The only thing that left his mouth was a high-pitched whimper. 

Haurchefant pinched his nipples harshly, rolling them between his fingers until they were stiff and sore. Every time he gave a slight tug, A’chago felt his cock fill more. Haurchefant grinned, clearly feeling the evidence, and then smoothed his thumbs over his sensitive chest before resuming his assault. 

“O-oh, gods,” A’chago whined, wrenching his eyes shut. “Oh, _gods,_ don’t stop.”

Haurchefant twisted one of his nipples viciously and made him yelp. “This is a punishment,” he said mildly. “Don’t forget it.”

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you want to really punish me,” A’chago fired back. 

The man above him tilted his head, deep in thought, then shrugged and pulled his hands away entirely. The loss of sensation was staggering, and A’chago found himself sitting up to chase those large hands. 

“Woah, wait, Haurchefant,” A’chago began, but Haurchefant merely leaned back and rested his hands on his thighs. The look he gave him was polite, almost amused. 

“This is punishment,” he repeated. “For you misbehaving during dinner. For acting like such a tease.” He ground down on A’chago’s length as he spoke, swiveling his hips in an intoxicating manner. 

A’chago moaned, squirming under Haurchefant’s weight. “Please, touch me again,” he begged. 

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you really want me to,” Haurchefant said with a wicked grin, throwing his own words back in his face. Despite his calm demeanor, A’chago could feel how badly he wanted to resume too everytime the other man rolled his hips. 

A’chago tossed his head back and whimpered, pitching it just the way he knew would drive Haurchefant crazy. “Please,” he begged, twisting his own hips. “Please touch me. I need you. Haurchefant, I swear to the twelve, if you don’t-”

Haurchefant’s mouth descended on his nipple and everything flew out of A’chago’s brain. His mouth fell open into a tiny little _o_ of surprise. Haurchefant sucked, bringing his other hand up to roll his other nipple between his forefinger and thumb as he worked. The dual sensation is unlike anything A’chago had ever felt before, and his voice broke halfway through moaning his appreciation. 

Haurchefant didn’t give him an ilm of mercy, finally pulling off after he snagged A’chago’s nipple with his teeth and bit. It was painful, shockingly so, but when Haurchefant moved his head to the other side of his chest he soothed away the sting with a sweep of his thumb. 

The other nipple is assaulted in a similar manner, and it left A’chago biting down on his fist to keep from crying out. He couldn’t stop the tiny, aborted movements of his hips or the whines that died caged in his throat. The entire world narrowed down to just Haurchefant’s hands, his mouth, his tongue. 

Haurchefant pulled off, lips shiny and wet, grinning. A’chago was achingly, devastatingly hard, and if he wasn’t so in love with the man on top of him he’d throw him across the room for daring to stop.

Haurchefant was quick to get back into the action, though, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them down just enough to pull his cock out. It was red and weeping, precum beading at the slit and sliding down. A’chago entertained a brief thought of licking his way up that length just like he did the wine glass, but it was quickly shoved out of his head when Haurchefant flipped him over and yanked his pants down. 

A’chago arched his back, wiggling until his pants were out of the way enough to allow Haurchefant easy access. “Tease,” Haurchefant said with an audible smirk, then there’s the sound of a drawer pushing closed and the soft _pop_ of a cork bottle opening. A’chago turned to stare over his shoulder as Haurchefant poured oil onto two of his fingers, then gasped as he pushed those fingers into him. 

“Gods,” he whimpered, tensing up around the intrusion. Two weeks was too long-he was overwhelmingly sensitive, and even the drag of Haurchefant’s fingers inside of him was steadily becoming too much. “Please, hurry.”

Haurchefant made a choked noise behind him and his wrist jumped, causing his fingers to press directly into A’chago’s prostate. The shock of it made his eyes fly open and he clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. 

“No, no, let them hear you,” Haurchefant said, resuming his movements. “Maybe they'll even hear you over Trussaint's droning.” 

A’chago pushed back against Haurchefant’s hand. Gods, the thought of Haurchefant’s _family_ having dinner just down the hall, hearing his screams echo off the walls of House Fortemps should not be nearly as hot as it felt. Nevertheless, A’chago moaned, screwing his eyes shut and entertaining the fantasy. Walking into the dining room at breakfast tomorrow morning and having everyone know _exactly_ what he’d gotten up to the previous night…

Haurchefant pulled his hand out of A’chago’s hole slowly, then palmed his ass and spat into it. It shocked A’chago out of his head, just in time to be fully conscious of Haurchefant pushing his cock into him as slowly as humanly possible. 

The girth of it surprised him every time. A’chago clenched his teeth and tried to relax. Two fingers wasn’t nearly enough, was Haurchefant trying to kill him? He felt like he was being split open. 

Haurchefant bent over and pressed a kiss to his shoulder blades. “You’re doing so well for me, darling,” he murmured. “There you go. You can take it.”

Finally, finally, finally he bottomed out. A’chago let out a sigh of relief and uncurled his fists from where he’d been gripping the sheets. Haurchefant slid his hands underneath A’chago’s belly and rested there, exploring the slight bulge in his lower abdomen with a fervent sort of curiosity. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re huge, we get it,” A’chago panted, looking over his shoulder at Haurchefant’s face. “Practically splitting me in two, it’ll be a miracle if I can even walk tomorrow.”

“I’ll carry you,” Haurchefant said idly. He shifted, slightly, pulling his hips back, and A’chago winced. He’d gotten used to Haurchefant’s stillness, and now the burn of the drag was threatening to kill his erection entirely. 

As if in apology, Haurchefant’s hands slid up from his stomach back to his nipples, tweaking them gently. It was enough to make his cock jump, and A’chago gasped as pleasure rocketed through him. Haurchefant pulled out, slowly, playing with his chest to keep him distracted, then rammed himself back in so forcefully that A’chago was shoved up a few inches on the bed. 

Haurchefant set up a punishing pace, bracing his hands on either side of A’chago’s body as he jackhammered into him. It was like he’s completely forgot about A’chago’s pleasure-which, A’chago remembered upsettedly, is somewhat of the _point_ of a punishment. No matter. He would take what he can get. 

Until Haurchefant changed his angle just slightly and punched a choked noise out of A’chago’s throat. His back arched even more, taking Haurchefant even deeper, and then everything was swallowed up in waves of pleasure. 

“Oh shit,” A’chago cried, pushing his hips back to meet Haurchefant’s thrusts. “Oh, shit, faster!”

Haurchefant fisted a hand in his hair and yanked, pulling A’chago up until he’s nearly bent in two, balancing himself on his hands and knees. He bit the side of A’chago’s neck as he fucked into him, the other hand finding a nipple and squeezing it roughly, and for the first time in his life A’chago came completely untouched. 

Turned out the gods _do_ listen, because A’chago certainly was screaming into the night by the time Haurchefant finished, too.

**Author's Note:**

> im slowly transitioning away from tumblr! come scream abt ffxiv with me on  
> [twitter](www.twitter.com/jaybirddoodles) instead :)
> 
> thank you so much for reading!


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